716    621 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


\ 


HOT  CORN:     . 

LIFE  SCENES  IN  NEW  YORK  ILLUSTRATED 

INCLUDING 

THE   STORY  OF  LITTLE   KATY, 

MADALINA,  THE  RAG-PICKER'S   DAUGHTER, 

WILD    MAO-O-IE,    &c. 

WITH   ORIGINAL   i>KSIGNS,   ENGRAVED   BY   N.   ORE, 

BY    SOLON    ROBINSON. 


"  Bid  that  welcome 
Which  comes  to  punish  us." 

"A  beggar's  book  outworths  a  noble's  blood. 

"  Of  erery  inordinate  cup  beware, 
Or  drink,  tind  with  it  misery  share." 


FIFTEENTH    THOUSAND. 


NEW    YORK: 
DE   WITT   AND  DAVENPORT,   PUBLISHERS, 

160  &    162    NASSAU    STREET. 
185-i. 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


ENTKRED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  !n  the  year  1853,  by 

DE    WITT    &    DAVENPORT, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New- York 


W.  H.  TINSON,  Stereotyper,  Ac., 

82  Spruce  Str«et,  New  York. 


R.  CRA1OHEAD,  PRINTER, 

53  Vesey  st,  N.  Y. 


4-. 


TO 

HORACE    GREELET, 

AND    HIS   CO-LABORERS, 
EBITORS    OF    THE    NEW    YORK    TRIBUNE; 

The  Friends  of  the  Working  Man  ;  The  Advocates  of 
Lifting  uj>  poor  trodden-down  Humanity ;  The  Ardent  Supporters  of,  and  Earnest 

Advocates  for  the  Maine  Law ; 
The  Wishers  for  Better  Rewards  for  Woman's  Labor, 
And  All  Honest  Industry, 


€  Ij i  B  E  0  I D  tn *  is 


RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED, 
BY  YOUR  FRIEND  AND  FELLOW  WORKER, 

THE   AUTHOR. 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  growing  taste  for  works  of  this  kind — works  intended 
to  promote  temperance  and  virtue,  to  lift  up  the  lowly,  to 
expose  to  open  day  the  hidden  effects  produced  by  Rum,  to 
give  narratives  of  misery  suffered  by  the  poor  in  this  city — 
has  induced  the  Publishers  to  offer  liberal  inducements  to 
the  author  to  use  his  powerful  pen,  and  words  of  fire,  to 
depict  his  "  Life  Scenes,"  and  embody  them  in  a  volume, 
which,  we  are  satisfied,  will  prove  one  of  the  most  acceptable 
to  the  moral  portion  of  the  community,  ever  published.  It 
is  a  work  of  high  tone,  that  must  do  good.  The  peculiar 
stylo  of  the  author  is  as  original  as  the  tales  of  truth  which 
he  narrates.  It  is  unlike  that  of  any  other  author,  and 
every  page  is  full  of  fresh  interest  and  thrilling  narrative. 

As  a  temperance  tale,  it  has  no  equal.  As  such,  we  hope 
it  may  prove  but  the  commencement  of  a  series.  As  an 
expose  of  life  among  the  poor  in  this  city,  it  will  be  read 
with  deep  and  abiding  interest,  in  all  parts  of  this  country. 
It  is  a  work  for  the  fireside  of  every  family ;  a  book  that 
commends  itself  to  the  heart. 

No  one  who  has  read  the  "  HOT  CORN  STORIES,"  as  they 
appeared  in  the  Tribune,  but  will  rejoice  to  have  the  oppor 
tunity  to  possess  them,  and  many  more  like  them,  all  com 
plete  and  connected,  in  one  handsome  volume,  such  as  we 
now  offer. 

To  a  moral  and  religious  public  ;  to  all  who  would  promote 

(v) 


VI  INTRODUCTION. 

* 

temperance;  to  all  who  would  rather  see  virtue  than  vice 
abound ;  to  all  who  have  a  heart  to  feel  for  other's  woes ; 
to  all  who  would  have  their  hearts  touched  with  sympathy 
for  the  afflictions  of  their  fellow  creatures,  "Life  Scenes," 
as  depicted  in  this  volume,  are  respectfully  commended,  by 

THE    PUBLISHERS. 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE. 


"  OH,  pshaw,"  says  pretty  Miss  Impulsive,  "  I  hate  pre 
faces."  So  do  I.  Nobody  reads  them  ;  that  is,  nobody  but 
a  few  old  fellows  with  spectacles. ,  I  would  not  write  one, 
only  that  some  folks  think  a  book  looks  not  well  without. 
Well,  then,  I  have  written  a  great  deal  in  my  life — travels, 
tales,  songs,  temperance  stories,  some  politics,  a  good  deal 
upon  agriculture,  much  truth,  and  some  fiction,  always  in  the 
newspapers,  never  before  in  a  book.  I  know  that  many,  very 
many,  have  read  what  I  have  written  with  pleasure,  or  else 
"  this  world  is  awfully  given  to  lying,"  for  they  have  said  so. 
Will  they  read  my  book  ?  That  we  shall  see.  If  they  do, 
they  must  not  criticise  too  closely.  Remember  that  some  of 
the  most  thrilling  sketches  were  written  amid  the  daily  scenes 
and  avocations  of  a  city  editor's  office,  for  the  paper  in 
which  they  first  appeared,  without  any  thought  or  design  on 
the  part  of  the  author  of  making  a  book ; — that  was  the 
thought  of  the  publishers.  They  read  the  first  sketches,  and 
judged,  we  hope  rightly,  if  enlarged  and  embodied  in  a  neat 
volume,  it  would  be  appreciated  as  one  of  the  best  efforts,  in 
this  book-making  age,  to  do  good. 

If  they  have  judged  rightly, — if  it  does  have  that  effect, — 
if  the  public  do  appreciate  the  volume  as  they  often  have  my 
fugitive  effusions, — then  shall  I  be  rewarded,  and  they  may 
rest  assured,  whenever  they  buy  a  volume,  that  a  portion  of 
the  purchase  money  will  go  to  ameliorate  the  condition  of 

(vii) 


vni 

the  poor,  such  as  you  will  become  acquainted  with,  if  you 
follow  rne  in  my  walks  through  the  city,  as  depicted  in  this 
volume,  which  I  offer  most  hopingly  to  all  who  do  not 
know,  and  most  trustingly  to  all  who  da  know  him,  who  has 
so  often  signed  himself 

Your  old  friend. 

SOLON  ROBINSON. 
NEW  YORK,  November,  1853. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER     I. 

Page 
Scenes  in  Broadway  .         .         .         .         .         .         •         •         .15 

First  Appearance  of  Hot  Corn 18 

Sally  Eaton — Julia  Antrim 19 

Drunken  Man  Killed  by  an  Omnibus  .         .         .         ,         •   . '    ;  -~aj& 

Bill  Eaton  sent  to  the  Hospital 28 

The  Fire — Mrs.  Eaton's  House  Burned 30 

Three -Golden  Words 41 

CHAPTER     II. 

Hot  Corn — First  Interview  with  Little  Katy       .         .         .         .44 

A  Shilling's  Worth  of  Happiness 46 

A  Watch-word •      .  .         .49 

CHAPTER      III. 

Wild  Maggie 50 

The  Five  Points — Dens  where  Human  Beings  Live     ...  53 

Wild  Maggie's  Home ,     «         .         .  55 

The  House  of  Industry — Commencement  of  the  Ragged  School   .  60 

The  Rat-hole— The  Temperance  Meeting— The  Pledge— 'Tis  Done  .  63 

Jim  Reagan — Tom  Nolan — His  Temperance  Address  ...  69 

Ring-nosed  Bill— Snaky  Jo 71 

The  Pledge  and  a  Kiss 73 

CHAPTER      IV. 

The  Temptation — The  Fall — James  Reagan  after  the  Pledge  75 

The  Conspiracy  at  Gale  Jones's  Grocery      ..        ..  *    .         .         .  76 

Tom  Top — Snaky  Jo — Ring-nosed  Bill — Old  Angelina         .         .  78 

Reagan  Rescued  by  Maggie         .         •         i         •        •        •         .  84 

His  Second  Fall .'.»...  85 

Tom  Finds  and  Feeds  Him         .......  87 

His  Second  Visit  to  the  Temperance  Meeting       ....  89 

(9) 


X  CONTENTS. 

Pagt 
CHAPTER     V. 

The  Two-Penny  Marriage — Thomas  Elting          .  95 

CHAPTER      VI. 

The  Home  of  Little  Katy .         .104 

A.  Sad  Tale  and  its  Termination—"  Will  he  come  ?"  .         .112 

CHAPTER      VII. 

Wild  Maggie's  Mother .115 

Wild  Maggie's  Father 118 

Wild  Maggie's  Letter 120 

Death  and  his  Victim  '      .  •      .         .         .         .         .         .         .129 

Greenwood,  and  the  Rose  planted  by  a  new-made  Grave     .         .     132 

•     CHAPTER     VIII. 

Athalia,  the  Sewing  Girl 135 

The  Morgans 137 

Athalia's  Song  .         .         .         . 141 

Her  Home — Jeannette        .         .  .  ;      .         .         .         .     143 

The  Blow  and  its  Results  .         .         ...         .         .148 

Charley  Vail  and  Walter  Morgan 149 

CHAPTER     IX. 

The  Trip  to  Lake  George — Preparation — A  New  Bonnet     .         .160 

One  Bottle  too  many,  and  the  Catastrophe 163 

Marriage  and  Death .   "    .     165 

Where  Shall  the  Dead  find  Rest  ? 170 

Going  "  To  Get  a  Drink "          .         .         .         .         .         .         .171 

CHAPTER    X. 

Walter  Morgan  and  Wife— Charley  Vail  and  Wife      .         .         .175 

Going  to  Savannah   .         . 179 

The  Ten  Dollar  Bill  .         . 186 

Seeing  is  Believing    .         .         . 187 

Athalia  Homeless  and  Friendless        .         ...         .         .         .189 

CHAPTER     XI. 

Life  at  the  Five  Points — Madalina,  the  Rag-Picker's  Daughter    .     190 
Cow  Bay  and  its  Inhabitants      ...  ...     204 


CONTEXTS.  Xl 

Page 

Tom  and  the  Glass  of  Cold. Water      .         ...         .                   .  217 

"  I  never  Kiss  any  but  those  I  Love  " 219 

"  Our  Trade,"  said  the  Fiend  " 221 

Pocket-picking  ..........  222 

The  Poor-House  Hearse     . 224 

CHAPTER     XII. 

Athalia,  and  the  Home  she  found 225 

Mrs.  Laylor — Nannette 228 

The  Arts  of  Deception 230 

Frank  Barkley .246 

C  HA  P  T  E  R     XIII. 

The  Little  Peddler 249 

The  Exchange — Money  for  Rum,  Health  for  Misery    .         .         .  250 

Mr.  Lovetree     .         .                ,  .         .         .         .         .         .         .  258 

Stella  May 261 

Savage,  Civilized,'  and  Christian  Nature 266 

A  Walk  up  Broadway 267 

Mysterious  Disappearance            .......  26S 

The  Legless  Flower-seller  .         .  .  "  ' .  -  "'  ij   "  •.       "*•     ••.  .  '       ;  271 

Visit  to  a  Suspicious  House        .                   .         .  '• '  r*      '•  .         .  274 

Agnes  Brentnall  and  the  Negro  Wood-sawyer     .         .         .          .  283 

Phebe  and  her  Bible V   "'' .••!'••   .  287 

A  Girl  Lost       .         .   (     •'  f     ••    *• 289 

Stella  May  and  her  Mother 294 

The  Will           .   '      .         . 297 

CHAPTER     XIV. 

New  Scenes  and  New  Characters         .         .         .         .      •.*:.*,..:  306 

Mrs.  McTravers          .         .                   .         .         .         .         .  307 

Visit  to  the  Five  Points     .         .                   .       &&&&&      .  310 

The  Home  of  Little  Katy  deserted     .         .         .  .     'V,  •,•,.. ri      .  321 

Mrs.  De  Vrai— Who  is-  she  ?       .    ^  *v  ^-^^Ujtct;-:-  •*  -•  ^'  -  /  .  324 

A  Woman  Drunk  in  the  Street  .      .*«•*'•?.         .         .       ^  ,-    .  328 

CHAPTER      XV. 

Little  Katy's  Mother          .         ,      / .        .....  >/    '  .  ;  334 

De  Vrai,  and  a  Night  Scene       .         .        .      *.        ./    ';V  340 


Xll  CONTEXTS. 

Page 

CHAPTER     XVI. 

Agnes  BrentnaU 343 

Spirit  Mediums 351 

How  Agnes  was  Deceived 353 

CHAPTER     XVII. 

The  Intelligence  Office 361 

Agnes'  Story 364 

Mr.  Lovetree's  Story 370 

Agnes  finds  her  Mother 372 

Mrs.  De  Vrai's  Story 373 

Song— Will  he  Come? 383 

A  Death-bed  Appeal 385 

CHAPTER     XVIII. 

Julia  Antrim  and  other  Old  Acquaintances          ....  386 

The  Penitentiary— the  Visit  to  Mrs.  May 387 

Stella  May  in  her  New  Home 388 

Julia  Antrim's  Story 390 

Names  and  Characters  for  Life  Scenes 391 

Invitation  to  a  Party 392 

Going  to  be  Married 393 

Visit  to  Mrs  De  Vrai— Mrs.  Meltrand— Agnes  and  Adaleta          .  394 

CHAPTER     THE      LAST. 

"  She  is  Gone,  Sir  !" 396 

The  Death-bed — Little  Sissee 397 

The  Wedding  Party  at  Mrs.  Morgan's 398 

Who  is  the  Bride? — The  Double  Marriage           ....  399 

Greenwood  Cemetery — the  Grave        ......  400 

"'Tis  the  Last  of  Earth" 401 

"Will  he  Come?" "- 'i        .  401 

In  the  Dark  Grave  Sleeping — a  Poem 402 

A  Voice  from  the  Grave — a  Poem 403 

The  Last  Word  .  ,408 


HOT   COKN. 

LIFE  SCENES  IN  NEW  YORK  ILLUSTRATED. 

^      » 

CHAPTER  I. 

OUR   TITLE. THE    STORY. 

"  How  hard  It  Is  to  hide  the  sparks  of  nature." 

IT  is  a  queer  title  for  a  book ;  what  can  it  mean  ?"  is  the 
exclamation  of  those  who  open  it  for  the  first  time. 

Visit  this  city — walk  with  me  from  nine  o'clock  till  mid 
night,  through  the  streets  of  New  York,  in  the  month  of 
August,  then  read  the  first  interview  of  the  author  with  little 
Katy,  the  Hot  Corn  girl,  and  the  story  of  her  life,  and  you 
will  not  ask,  "What  does  it  mean?"  But  you  may  ask, 
what  does  it  mean  that  I  see  so  many  squalid-looking  women, 
so  many  tender  children,  so  many  boys,  who  with  well  directed 
labor  might  work  their  way  to  fortune;  or  crippled  men, 
sitting  upon  the  stone  steps  along  the  street  crying,  "Hot 
corn !  here's  your  nice  hot  corn — smoking  hot,  smoking 
hot,  just  from  the  pot !"  Your  heart,  if  it  has  not  grown 
callous,  will  be  pained  as  mine  has  been  at  the  sights  of 


14  HOT     CORN. 

misery  you  will  meet  with,  and  you  will  then  exclaim,  "  What 
does  it  mean  that  I  see  these  things  in  the  very  heart  of  this 
great  commercial  city,  where  wealth,  luxury,  extravagance, 
all  abound  in  such  profusion  ?  Surely  the  condition  of  the 
people,  the  ways  and  wants  of  the  poor,  cannot  be  known,  or 
they  would  be  improved.  Why  does  not  somebody  write  a 
book  illustrating  these  "Life  Scenes  in  New  York,"  whose 
every  page  shall  be  a  cry,  startling  as  this  of  *  Hot  corn,  hot 
corn !'  now  pealing  in  the  midnight  air  ?" 

So  thought  I ;  and  so  straightway  set  about  the  work,  with 
ample  material  at  hand,  and  more  accumulating  at  every 
step.  In  writing  a  book,  the  first  thought  of  the  author  is, 
what  shall  be  my  title?  What  better  could  I  have  than 
HOT  CORN,  since  that  was  the  inciting  cry  that  waked  my 
pen  to  action,  to  paint  these  life  scenes  in  vivid  pictures,  for 
the  world  to  look  at  and  improve  ? 

If,  in  my  daily  walks  and  midnight  rambles,  I  have  seen 
revolting  sights,  the  details  of  which  are  harrowing  to  your 
soul  as  you  read,  so  much  the  more  need  that  they  be  opened 
to  your  view.  Wounds  must  be  seen  to  be  healed.  Old  sores 
are  often  pronounced  incurable,  simply  because  they  are  old. 

First,  strip  off  their  dirty  covering,  then  probe  and  wash, 
and  then  apply  the  healing  balsam.  If  not  already  gan 
grened  from  long  neglect,  you  may  save  the  patient's  life,  and 
at  all  events,  ease  his  suffering,  and  smooth  his  road  to  the 
grave. 

Be  mine  the  task  to  strip  and  expose,  and  yours  to  wash 
and  heal. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  15 

Of  just  such  life  scenes  as  I  depic\  there  are  enough  tran 
spiring  every  night  to  fill  a  volume. 

Come,  walk  with  me,  of  an  August  evening,  from  the  Bat 
tery  to  Union  Square,  and  you  shall  see  all  the  characters  of  a 
romance. 

"Tis  concert  night  at  Castle  Garden.  Stand  here  a  short 
half  hour,  and  look  at  the  gay  and  smiling  throng.  There  is 
material  for  many  a  tale. 

Three  thousand  robes  of  fine  cloth,  silks,  gauze,  and  lace, 
pass  the  Battery  gates  in  one  night,  fluttering  to  the  open  sea 
breeze,  without  one  thought  from  those  who  wear  them  for 
the  poor  little  girl  that  sits  shivering  by  the  path,  crying  hot 
corn,  or  vainly  striving  to  beg  one  penny  from  the  overflowing 
purses  that  freely  give  dollars  for  amusement,  and  less  than 
nothing  to  misery,  or  for  its  annihilation.  Little  do  they 
think  that  this  child  has  a  mother  at  home,  who  once  counted 
one  in  just  such  a  thoughtless  throng. 

Here  might  a  chapter  be  written,  but  let  us  on ;  we  shall 
find  plenty  of  subjects.  If  we  stop  to  write  the  history  of 
that  little  girl  and  her  mother,  we  shall  fill  our  book  before 
we  start. 

The  Philadelphia  boat  has  just  landed  her  passengers  at 
Pier  No'.  1.,  North  River,  and  the  crowd 'are  coming  up  Bat 
tery  Place.  Here  is  a  picture  of  American  character. 
Every  one  is  pushing  forward  as  though  there  was  but  one  bed 
left  in  the  city,  and  to  obtain  that  he  intended  to  outstride 
and  overreach  all  his  fellow  travellers.  Take  care,  little  hot  corn 
girl,  or  you  will  be  run  over,  and  your  store  trampled  under- 


16  .  HOT     CORN. 

foot.  Bitter  tears  for  your  loss  will  run  down  your  hollow 
cheeks,  but  they  will  gain  you  no  sympathy.  The  only 
answer  that  you  will  get,  will  be,  "  Why  didn't  you  get  out  of 
the  way,  you  little  dirty  brat — good  enough  for  you."  Yes, 
good  enough  for  you,  that  you  have  lost  your  entire  stock  of 
merchandize;  what  business  had  you  in  the  way  of  com 
merce,  or  path  of  pleasure  ? 

"  But,  sir,"  says  benevolence  in  a  drab  bonnet,  "  you  have 
hurt  the  child." 

"  What  if  I  have  ?  she  has  no  business  in  the  way.  She 
is  nothing  but  a  hot  corn  girl ;  they  are  no  better  than  beggars 
and  often  are  little  thieves.  Why  don't  she  stay  at  home  ?" 
Sure  enough.  Simply  because  necessity  or  cruelty  drives  her 
into  the  street.  Now  your  cruelty  will  drive  her  home  to  be 
beaten  by  a  drunken  father,  for  your  act  of  wanton  careless 
ness. 

Stand  aside,  my  little  sufferer,  or  you  will  be  run  over  again. 
Here  comes  a  little  dark  skinned,  black-eyed,  black-haired 
man,  with  life  and  death  in  his  very  step. 

What  magic  power  impels  him  forward.  He  is  a  Jew — a 
dealer  in  second-hand  clothes.  Surely  his  business  cannot  be 
so  important  that  he  need  to  upset  little  children,  or  step  on 
the  gouty  toes  of  slow-going  old  gentlemen,  in  his  hurry  to 
get  forward. 

It  is  Friday  night,  his  Sabbath  has  already  commenced,  ho 
can  do  no  business — make  no  monish — to-night.  He  is  not 
in  a  hurry  to  reach  the  synagogue,  that  is  closed,  what  then  ? 
He  has  a  Christian  partner,  and  he  wants  to  arrange  a  little 


LIFE     SCENES    IN     NEW    YORK.  17 

speculation  for  to-morrow.  He  has  just  received  information 
of  a  shipment  of  yellow  fever  patients'  clothing,  which  will 
arrive  to-morrow  or  Sunday,  and  he  wants  his  Christian  part 
ner  to  look  out  on  Saturday  ;  on  Sunday,  the  Jew  will  watch 
the  chance  to  buy  the  infected  rags,  which  both  will  sell  on 
Monday  at  a  hundred  per  cent  profit. 

"  What,  at  the  risk  of  human  life  ?  Oh,  I  can  believe  that 
of  a  Jew,  but  certainly  no  Christian  would  do  it." 

There  spoke  the  Christian  reader.  The  Jew  will  say  the 
same,  only  reversing  the  character.  No  good  Christian  or 
Jew  either  will  do  it ;  yet  it  will  be  done,  and  little  beggar 
girls  will  be  run  over  in  the  hot  haste  to  meet  the  coming 
ship. "/[  *'' 

Walk  on.  The  side-walks  are  crowded,  and  the  street 
between  the  curb-stones  full  of  great  lumbering  omnibuses 
and  'carriages,  that  go  up  and  down  all  night  for  hire ;  but 
there  is  a  melancholy  stillness  in  all  the  houses  where  wealth 
and  fashion,  in  our  young  days,  lived  in  lamp-lighted  parlors, 
and  diamonds  flashed  down  upon  the  listener  to  music  which 
had  its  home  in  these  gay  dwellings,  where  happy  looking 
faces  were  seen  through  open  windows.  Iron  shutters  close 
them  how,  and  commerce  wears  a  dark  frown  by  gas  light. 

On  the  right  is  Wall  street,  where  fortunes  are  made  and 
lost  as  by  the  turn  of  a  card,  or  rattle  of  a  dice  box.  It  is 
very  thronged  at  noon  day.  It  is  very  dull  now.  A  few 
watchmen  tread  slowly  around  the  great  banking  houses, 
working  for  'a  dollar  a  night  to  eke  out  a  poorly  paid  day,  by 
guarding  treasures  that  the  owners  would  not  watch  all  the 


18  HOT    CORN. 

live  long  night  for  all  the  watchman  is  worth.  But  he  must 
watch  and  work ;  he  has  a  sick  wife  at  home,  and  four  little 
girls  are  growing  up  to  womanhood  and  city  life.  God 
knows  for  what ! 

A  few  express  wagons,  and  more  of  these  ever-going  ever- 
coming  omnibuses,  are  corning  out  of  Wall  street  to  join 
the  great  Broadway  throng.  And  a  pale-faced  little  girl 
sits  upon  the  steps  of  the  Bank  of  the  Republic,  adding  to 
that  constant  cry,  "  Hot  corn !  Hot  corn  !"  Now  here  comes 
the  Cerberus  of  this  money  palace.  What  possible  harm  to 
his  treasures,  can  this  little  poverty-clad  girl  and  her  sickly 
looking  little  beggar  boy  brother  do,  sitting  here  upon  the 
cold  grey,  stone  steps,  with  an  appealing  look  to  every  passer 
by  to  give  a  penny  or  buy  an  ear  of  corn.  Does  he  think 
they  are  merely  using  their  trade  to  plot  mischief  and 
schemes  to  rob  his  vaults  of  their  stores  of  gold?  On*1, 
would  judge  so  by  the  way  he  growls  at  them. 

"  Clear  out,  you  dirty  brats — away  with  you,  lousy  beggars 
— home  to  your  kennel,  young  thieves.  Don't  come  on  these 
steps  again,  or  I  will  throw  your  corn  in  the  gutter." 

Are  these  the  words  to  work  reform  ?  They  are  such  as 
fall  every  day  and  night  upon  the  ear  of  just  such  specimens 
of  the  young  sprouts  of  humanity,  that  vegetate  and  grow  a 
brief  summer  in  the  city,  dying  in  some  of  the  chill  winters 
of  neglect,  that  come  over  their  tender  years,  blighting,  freez 
ing,  killing.  How  little  of  the  gold,  Cerberus  guards,  would 
serve  to  warm  these  two  young  children  into  useful  life.  How 
little  those  who  guard  or  use  it,  care  for  those  they  drive 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  19 

unfeelingly  away  from  their  door  steps — for  what?  They 
have  made  it  a  place  of » convenience  for  their  nightly  trade. 
Tired  of  walking,  carrying  a  heavy  pail  between  them — heavy 
to  them — it  would  be  light,  and  were  it  all  gold,  compared 
with  that  within — they  have  sat  themselves  down,  and  just 
uttered  one  brief  cry  of  "Hot  corn,  here's  your  nice  hot 
corn  !"  when  they  are  roughly  ordered  to  "  clear  out,  you  dirty 
brats."  Yes,  they  are  dirty,  poor,  and  miserable,  children  of 
a  drunken  father — who  made  them  so  ?  No  matter.  They 
are  so,  and  little  has  that  gold  done  to  make  them  otherwise. 
"  Clear  out — get  off  these  steps,  or  I  will  kick  you  off." 
They  did  so,  and  went  over  to  the  other  side  of  Broadway, 
and  clung  to  that  strong  iron  fence,  and  looked  up  three  hun 
dred  feet  along  that  spire  which  points  to  heaven  from  Trinity 
church.  Did  they  think  of  the  half  million  of  dollars  there 
piled  up,  to  tell  the  world  of  the  wealth  of  New  York  city  ? 
No,  they  thought  of  the  poor,  wretched  room,  to  them  their 
only  home,  a  little  way  down  Rector  street,  scarcely  a 
stone's  throw  from  this  great  pile,  in  a  house,  owned  and 
rented  to  its  poor  occupants  by  that  great  land  monopoly,  the 
Rectory  of  this  great  church. 

"  Bill,"  says  the  girl,  "  do  you  see  that  gal  ?  how  fine  she  is 
tittivated  up.  Don't  she  look  like  a  lady  ?  I  know  who  she 
is,  Bill.  Do  you  think  when  I  gets  a  little  bigger,  the  old 
woman  is  going  to  keep  me  in  the  street  all  day  and  half  the 
night,  peddling  peanuts  and  selling  hot  corn?  No,  sir-ee. 
I  will  dress  as  fine  as  she  does,  and  go  to  balls  and  theatres, 
and  have  good  suppers  and  wine,  at  Taylors  and  lav  a-bed 


20  HOT  'CORN. 

next  day  just  as  long  as  I  please.  Why  not  ?  I  am  as  good- 
looking,  if  I  was  dressed  up,  as  she  is." 

"Why,  Sal,  how  will  you  do  that?  You  ha'n't  got  no 
good  clothes,  and  mother  ha'n't  got  none,  and  if  she  had, 
she  wouldn't  give  'em  to  ye." 

"I  don't  care,  I  know  how  to  get  them.  I  know  the 
woman  that  owns  every  rag  that  street  gal  has  got  on  her 
back." 

"  Them  ain't  rags,  them's  silk,  and  just  as  good  dress  as 
them  opera  gals  had  on,  that  went  stringing  along  down 
Broadway  a  while  ago.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  get  sich, 
'less  you  prig  'em.  I'd  do  that  if  I  had  a  chance,  blessed 
quick.  How'd  she  get  'em,  Sal  ?" 

"  I  knows,  and  that's  'nuff." 

Why  should  she  not  know  ?  She  had  been  to  school  long 
enough  to  learn,  and  would  be  a  very  inapt  scholar  if  she  had 
not  learned  some  of  the  ways  of  the  street,  in  thirteen  years. 
In  thirteen  years  more  she  will  be  a  fit  subject  to  excite  the 
care  of  the  Moral  Reform  Society,  or  become  the  inmate  of  a 
Mary  Magdalene  asylum ;  perchar  e,  of  Randall's  Island. 

There  is  a  history  about  these  two  children  and  their 
parents,  which  you  may  read  by  and  by.  We  cannot  stop, 
now.  Let  us  walk  on.  Iron  shutters — bolted,  barred,  and 
strong  locked  doors,  what  piles  of  treasure  lie  just  within. 

At  Maiden  lane  on  the  right,  and  Courtlandt  street  on  the 
left,  more  omnibuses  come  up,  crowding  their  way  into  an 
already  overfull  "  Broadway." 

Oh  !  what  a  scream.     It  is  a  woman's  scream.     A  cry  of 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  21 

anguish — of  horror,  that  chills  the  blood.  It  comes  from  the 
apple  woman  at  the  corner,  and  yet  she  is  not  hurt.  No  one 
is  near  her,  the  crowd  is  rushing  to  the  centre  of  the  street. 
What  .for?  An  omnibus  has  run  over  a  drunken  man.  This 
is  always  enough  to  excite  the  sympathy  of  woman,  and  make 
her  cry  out  as  with  pain.  It  is  pain,  the  worst  of  pain ;  it 
comes  from  a  blow  upon  the  heart ;  worse  than  that,  in  this 
case,  for  the  man  is  her  husband.  He  has  just  left  her, 
where  he  has  been  tormenting  her  for  an  hour,  begging,  coax 
ing,  pleading,  promising,  that  if  she  would  give  him  one 
shilling,  he  would  go  directly  home  and  go  to  bed,  as  soon  as 
he  got  something  to  eat.  "Something  to  drink."  No. 
Upon  his  word,  he  would  not  touch  another  drop  the  blessed 
night.  She  well  knew  the  value  of  such  promises.  She  well 
knew  that  the  corner  grocery,  where  he  would  stop  to  buy  the 
loaf  of  bread,  which  he  promis'ed  to  share  with  the  two  chil 
dren,  kept  a  row  of  glistening  glasses  and  decanters  upon  the 
same  shelf  with  the  loaves.  "The  staff  of  life,"  and  life's 
destroyer,  side  by  side.  She  knew  his  appetite— she  knew 
the  temptation  to  which  he  would  be  subjected,  she  knew  he 
could  not  resist,  she  knew  the  vampire  who  dealt  in  life  and 
death,  would  suck  up  that  shilling,  if  with  it  came  the 
heart's  blood  of  him,  her,  and  their  two  children.  She 
knew  her  husband,  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation. 
Once  sober  and  he  could  keep  so,  if  the  means  of  intoxication 
were  kept  out  of  his  sight.  Once  drunk  and  he  would  keep 
so,  as  long  as  he  could  obtain  a  shilling  to  pay  for  the  poison. 
His  last  resource  was  to  beg  from  his  wife's  scanty  profits,  by 


22  HOT     CORN. 

which  she  mainly  supported  the  family,  who  often  went  sup« 
perless  to  bed,  for  the  rent  must  be  paid.  Landlords  are 
inexorable.  Hers  was  worth  so  many  millions  that  the 
income  was  a  source  of  great  care,  how  it  should  be  disposed 
of.  Her  rent  wras  coming  due,  and  every  shilling  looked  to 
her  of  tenfold  value  to-night.  Her  children  are  in  the  street, 
filling  the  night  air  with  an  appealing  cry,  "  Hot  corn,  hot 
corn,  who'll  buy  my  nice  hot  corn?"  her  husband  was  begging 
for  one  more  shilling  to  waste — worse  than  waste — to  close  an 
ill-spent  day.  Oh,  what  a  contrast  between  this  and  their 
wedding  day ! 

She  resisted  his  importunity  until  he  found  'twas  no  avail, 
and  then  he  swore  he  would  upset  her  little  store  in  the  gut 
ter,  if  she  did  not  give  him  the  money.  "What  could  she  do  2 
She  would  not  call  an  officer  to  take  him  away.  No,  she 
could  not  do  that,  he  was  her  husband.  She  could  not 
resist  him,  could  not  have  an  altercation  in  the  street,  that 
would  draw  an  idle  crowd  around  her,  spoil  her  trade,  and 
worse  than  that,  let  the  world  know  that  this  bloated,  ill- 
looking,  miserable  remnant  of  a  man,  was  her  husband. 
Shame  did  what  persuasion  or  fear  could  not :  she  gave  him 
the  shilling,  and  he  started  to  cross  the  crowded  street.  He 
heeded  little  of  danger — he  had  often  crossed  when  more 
drunk  than  now — he  heeded  not  the  tripartite  crush  of  car 
riages  coming  up  and  going  down  these  streets,  all  meeting  in 
a  sort  o"'  vortex  at  that  point.  He  heard,  or  heeded  not,  the 
drivers,  "  hi,  hi,  hi,  get  out  of  the  way,  you  drunken  son  of 
a ."  and  down  he  went  among  the  horses'  clattering  feet, 


LITE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  23 

upon  the  slippery  stones,  and  the  wheels  passed  over  him, 
crushing  bones — human  bones,  and  mangling  flesh,  and  mix 
ing  human  blood  with  street  dirt. 

The  omnibuses  turned  aside,  the  passengers  shuddered  as 
the  poor  wretch  was  lifted  up,  covered  with  blood  and  dirt, 
and  inquired,  "Is  he  dead?"  the  drivers  looked  down  coolly 
from  their  high  seats,  with  a  consoling  remark,  that,  "it's 
nothing  but  a  drunken  man,"  yet,  that  drunken  man  was  that 
woman's  husband ;  him  who,  fourteen  years  ago,  walked  the 
streets  as  well  dressed,  as  proud,  as  sober  as  any  in  the  crowd 
who  now  gaze  carelessly  upon  his  bruised  form,  and  hear  the 
remark,  that  he,  "  is  nothing  but  a  drunken  man." 

Fourteen  years  ago — yes,  this  very  night — that  woman 
walked  this  very  street,  arm  in  arm,  with  that  man,  and 
heard  him,  for  the  first  time,  call  her  wife.  It  was  a  happy 
time  then,  and  "all  was  merry  as  the  marriage  bell."  Lit 
tle  thought  they  then — less  thought  they  a  year  afterwards, 
while  rocking  the  cradle  in  their  own  happy  home,  that  the 
time  would  come  when  he  would  raise  his  hand  in  anger  to 
strike  that  loving  wife,  or  that  child  would  be  driven,  with 
kicks  and  curses,  into  the  streets,  or  that  he  would  lie  bleeding 
upon  the  pavement  he  had  so  often  and  so'  proudly  trod 
before,  a  poor  mangled  drunkard. 

Oh  how  those  words — joyous  words — first  rung  in  that 
happy  mother's  ears,  when  the  proud  father  said : — 

41  Have  you  got  a  baby  ?" 

"  Yes,  Willie,  we  have  got  a  baby." 


24  HOT     CORN. 

How  these  words  have  rung  like  electric  sparks  through 
many  a  happy  heart. 

"Have  you  got  a  baby?"  said  a  little  girl  to  a  gentle 
man  riding  out  of  Boston.  It  was  a  queer  question,  arising 
as  it  did  from  a  child  he  overtook  on  the  road.  How  his  city 
friends  would  have  laughed  at  him  if  they  had  heard  the 
question — "  Have  you  got  a  baby  2"  No  he  had  got  no  baby, 
yet  he  was  a  man  full  forty  years  of  age,  and  looked  as 
though  he  might  have  been  a  father,  and  so  thought  the 
little  girl.  Yet  he  had  no  baby.  Why  ?  He  was  a  bache 
lor  !  So  he  had  to  answer,  "  no,  my  pretty  miss,  I  have  got 
no  baby."  "  Oh  la,  haven't  you  ?  Well  we  have.  We  have 
got  a  baby  at  our  house  ! !" 

This  was  not  interesting  to  a  bachelor.  How  different  it 
would  have  been  if  he  had  married  Lucy  Smith,  whom  he 
intended  to  a  dozen  years  ago,  but  he  was  too  busy  then — too 
intent  upon  making  money  enough,  to  support  a  wife  before 
he  got  one.  Nonsense !  How  little  he  knew  of  the  sweet 
music  of  the  words,  "  have  you  got  a  baby  ?"  How  her  heart 
would  have  leaped  up  and  choked  her  utterance  if  she  had 
now  been  riding  by  his  side  as  his  wife,  instead  of  his  "  old 
flame,"  Lucy  Smith !  Lucy  Smi'h,  still,  for  she  had  never 
heard  those  words  touchingly  applied  to  her,  "  have  you  got 
a  baby  ?"  nor  had  she  ever  heard  a  sweet  little  girl  say  of  her, 
"  we  have  got  a  baby  at  our  house  !" 

How  many  a  mother's  heart  has  leapt  for  joy,  at  that  ques 
tion,  when  she  could  answer  it,  "  Yes,  I  have  got  a  baby  !" 


,'    :;C^  -   I----, 


THK     NKW-YOKK     KIRKMAN. Page    3U. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  26 

How  many  a  father's  heart  will  be  touched  with  emotion 
when  he  reads,  "  Have  you  got  a  baby  ?"  for  he  will  think 
as  I  do,  of  a  time  when,  returning  from  a  long  journey,  he 
meets  just  such  a  little  cherub  of  a  girl  at  his  own  gate,  who 
does  not  stop  to  ask  him  how  he  does,  nor  climb  his  knee  for 
the  accustomed  kiss,  so  exuberant  is  her  joy — so  anxious  is 
she  to  possess  him  with  the  secret  that  wells  up  and  fills  her 
very  existence  to  overflowing,  so  that  she  must  speak  or  burst, 
and  hence  she  watches  for  Papa,  and  runs  out  to  meet  him  at 
the  gate  with  such  a  smile — such  a  joyous,  glorious  smile, 
and  cry  of  "  Oh,  Papa,  we  have  got  a  baby ! !"  How  many 
a  mother's  heart  will  swell  and  throb,  and  how  the  warm 
tears — tears  of  joy  and  gladness — will  flow  as  she  fyears  that 
husband's  footstep  approach,  for  she  knows  he  will  say,  "Have 
you  got  a  baby?" 

But  there  is  no  such  joy  now  for  that  mother's  heart.  Yet 
that  is  the  same  father — fallen,  trampled,  dying,  and  she 
rushes  to  the  rescue. 

Two  police  officers  bear  him  to  the  side-walk  and  lift  him, 
lifeless  as  he  is,  upon  a  hand-cart.  How  the  idle  crowd  push 
and  jostle  each  other  to  get  a  sight  of  the  wounded  man. 
What  for  ?  To  administer  to  his  wants ;  to  give,  if  need  be, 
something  to  minister  to  his  relief?  No.  To  gratify  curiosity 
— morbid,  idle  curiosity. 

How  this  woman  pushes  and  struggles  to  break  the  circle, 
crying,  "  Let  me  in,  let  me  in ;  let  me  see  him."  How  little 
the  crowd  heed  her.  They  think  it  is  curiosity,  too,  nothing 
but  curiosity,  that  impels  her,  as  it  does  themselves. 


26  nor   co  na. 

Why  don't  she  say,  "  It  is  my  husband  ?"  and  then  they 
would  give  her  room,  or  the  officers  would  make  them. 
Why !  why  don't  she  say  it  ?  She  is  ashamed  to  tell  unfeel 
ing  hearts  how  low  she  has  been  sunk  in  the  world  since  first 
she  called  that  man  by  that  name,  or  heard  those  heart- touch 
ing  words  when  their  first  child  was  born. 

Husband  was  a  sweet  word  once ;  it  is  a  bitter  one  now ; 
yet  it  must  be  spoken,  for  they  are  about  to  bear  him  away 
to  the  hospital.  Whether  dead  or  alive  she  knows  not,  and 
she  rushes  madly  forward,  seizing  the  policeman,  with  a  cry 
of,  "  No,  no ;  not  there,  not  there ;  take  him  home,  I  will  take 
care  of  him — nobody  can  take  care  of  him  so  well  as  I  can. 
Oh,  let  me  take  him  home !  Do  let  me  take  him  home." 
What  could  she  do  with  him  in  her  one  room,  the  home  of 
herself  and  children.  She  could  not  stay  to  nurse  him  day 
after  day,  for  then  her  trade  would  be  lost ;  somebody  else 
would  fake  her  stand ;  there  would  be  no  income,  all  would 
be  outgo,  and  all  would  soon  be  exhausted ;  nothing  to  buy 
bread,  nothing  to  pay  rent,  and  then  out  must  go  the  whole, 
sick  or  well ;  they  must  go  in  the  street  if  they  fail  to  meet  that 
dreaded  periodical — the  rent  day.  There  is  no  help  for  it. 
All  this  is  hastily  considered,  and  there  is  no  other  way ;  he 
must  go  to  the  hospital.  'Tis  a  blessed  institution — a  noble 
honor  to  the  city,  charitably  sustained,  to  give  relief  to — who  ? 
A  thousand  just  such  subjects  as  this ;  made  drunk,  covered 
with  gore,  maimed  with  broken  limbs,  by  a  legalized  traffic 
in  hell's  best  aid  on  earth.  A  trade  that  fills  jails,  thieves- 
dens,  and  brothels,  and  furnishes  subjects  like  this  for  hospitals. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  27 

"  He  must  go  to  the  hospital." 

"  Then  I  will  follow  and  nurse  him  there." 

There  spoke  the  wife,  as,  ever  since  that  holy  name  was 
known,  the  wife  "has  spoken — can  speak  alone. 

How  can  she  go  ? 

Something  clings  to  her  dress  and  pulls  her  back.  She 
looks  around  npon  a  little  boy  and  girl — it  is  the  hot  corn 
girl,  just  driven  from  the  banking-house  steps  three  squares 
below. 

"  Mother,  mother,  do  speak  to  us  ;  it  is  Bill  and  me.  Is 
father  dead  ?  What  killed  him  ?" 

Rum!  She  did  not  say  so.  She  only  thought.  She 
thought,  too,  of  her  helpless  children,  and  what  would  they 
do  if  she  went  to  take  care  of  their  father.  She  did  not  think 
of  the  blows,  the  kicks,  and  cuffs,  and  curses,  received  from 
him  during  long  bitter  years,  for  they  were  given  by — not  by 
him — not  by  her  husband — but  by  the  demon  in  him — the 
devil  engendered  by  rum.  She  thought  nothing  of  the  cruel 
neglect  and  poverty  and  suffering  of  herself  and  children,  for 
that  was  a  sequence  of  the  other.  She  did  think  of  this  night, 
fourteen  years  ago.  She  did  think  of  the  night  when  this  girl, 
now  clinging  to  her  dress  and  convulsively  crying,  "  Mother, 
is  he  dead,"  was  born,  for  then  she  was  a  happy  wife  and 
mother.  Then  that  father  took  that  child  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  and  blessed  it — then  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  and  loved  her,  and  called  her  his  dear  wife.  She  did 
not  think  of  the  night  when  that  little  slender  boy,  now  ten 
years  old,  was  born,  for  then  a  devil — not  a  husband — dragged 


28  HOT     CORN. 

her  by  the  hair,  while  in  labor,  from  her  poor  cot,  and  bid 
her  go  out 'in  the  pitiless  storm  to  fill  his  bottle  for  him.  No, 
she  did  not  remember  that ;  she  only  remembered  that  he 
was  her  husband  ;  wounded,  dying  husband,  in  need  of  some 
kind  hand  to  make  his  bed  and  smooth  his  passage  to  the 
grave,  and  she  would  leave  all  without  a  thought  to  follow 
him  to  the  hospital.  She  was  his  wife.  Now  there  is  a  strug 
gle  between  duty  and  affection — between  husband  and  chil 
dren.  She  cannot  go  with  both.  One  must  be  neglected  ; 
which  shall  it  be  ?  Had  the  husband  been  what  he  was 
when  that  girl  was  born,  the  heart  of  many  a  wife  would  give 
the  ready  answer.  She  looked  upon  her  and  remembered 
the  time  when  she  first  heard  these  words,  "  Have  you  got  a 
baby  ?"  She  looked  upon  her,  and  all  intervening  time  faded 
from  memory,  and  she  thought  and  felt  as  she  would  have 
felt  if  he  had  been  struck  down  that  night.  She  tears  herself 
away  from  the  grasp  of  the  little  girl,  telling  her  to  pick  up 
the  apples  and  go  home,  she  must  go  with  father. 

Another  hand  clings  to  her  dress,  and  looks  up  with  such 
an  appealing  look  and  says : — 

"  Don't  go,  mother ;  they  will  take  care  of  father.  Don't 
leave  us." 

She  looked  upon  her  sickly  boy,  and  thought  of  the  night 
he  was  born.  Why  does  she  start  and  turn  round  ?  Did 
•some  one  pull  her  by  the  hair  ?  No,  it  was  only  fancy.  A 
sort  of  magnetic  influence,  linked  with  thought.  That  twinge 
decided  her.  That  twinge  decided  his  fate,  and  saved  her 
childen's  lives.  She  went  home  with  them,  and  tired  nature 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW     YORK.  29 

slept  in  spite  of  mental  agony.  At  four  o'clock  the  bells  rung 
for  fire ;  it  was  long  before  she  could  wake  sufficiently  to 
count  the  eight  strokes  which  told  it  was  in  her  district. 
Dreamily  unconscious  of  danger,  she  moves  not  till  she  hears 
a  crash  and  sees  a  light  through  the  small  rear  window, 
when  she  springs  up,  opens  the  door,  looks  out  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  stairs,  and  meets  a  burst  of  flame  and  smoke 
coming  up.  Back,  back  to  the  bed,  closing  the  door — a  thin 
pine  door — the  only  barrier  between  the  fire  and  her  sleeping 
babes,  she  drags  them  out  and  up  to  the  window.  Will  she 
throw  them  down  upon  the  pavement  below,  as  the  only  hope 
of  saving  their  lives,  for  the  fire  is  fairly  up  the  stairs  and 
rattling  at  the  door  behind  her  ?  If  it  enters  all  is  lost.  The 
window  is  opened,  and  the  little  boy  first — he  is  the  darling 
— poised  upon  the  sill,  in  the  bewildered  amazement  of  half- 
awaking  consciousness. 

"  Oh  mother,  mother,  don't  throw  me  out !  I  will  be  a 
good  boy,  mother.  I  never  will  tear  my  jacket  again. 
Indeed  I  could  not  help  it.  It  was  a  big  boy  that  pulled  me. 
Oh,  mother,  mother,  don't,  pray  don't." 

lie  screams  with  fear,  as  he  hangs  convulsively  upon  his 
mother's  neck,  and  looks  down  upon  the  gathering  crowd, 
crying,  "  Throw  him  out,  throw  him  out ;  we  will  catch  him." 
And  a  hundred  hands  are  outstretched,  a  hundred  noble  hearts 
would  prostrate  themselves  upon  the  pavement  tcr  save,  to 
break  the  fall  of  a  beggar  boy  whom  they  would  have  kicked 
out  of  their  path  the  day  before.  Now  a  mother  appeals  to 
her  fellow  men  to  save  her  child.  She  had  oft  appealed 


30  HOT     CORN. 

i 

before,  but  then  the  house  was  not  on  fire  ;  the  fire  was  in  his 
father's  mouth — and  that  they  heeded  not.  No  bells  rung, 
to  call  the  engines  with  copious  streams  of  water  to  put  it  out 
— they  are  ringing  now.  And  now  see  the  outstretched 
hands,  each  ready  to  risk  its  own  life  to  save  that  of  a  child. 

"  Let  him  go — throw  him  out — you  will  all  burn  up  in  five 
minutes  more — this  old  wooden  house  burns  like  tinder." 

She  looks  behind  her ;  the  flame  is  sending  serpent  tongues 
under  the  door.  Iler  dress  upon  a  chair  is  on  fire — now  the 
bed.  They  must  jump,  naked  too,  down  among  those  men, 
or  die. 

"  Hold    on !    hold    on  !      Way   there — give  way   there 
Hurrah,  men !  lively  now !" 

Oh,  that  was  a  sight  for  that  mother  and  her  two  children. 
A  ladder  company  thundered  down  the  street  with  their  cry 
of  "  Way  there !"  for  they  have  caught  the  sight  of  a  woman 
and  children  in  distress ;  and  oh !  how  they  do  press  forward, 
shouting,  "  Way  there  !  lively  now !  Hold  on,  we  will  save 
you !"  How  quick,  after  they  reach  the  spot,  a  ladder  is 
loosened  and  off  the  carriage,  with  one  end  on  the  ground 
and  the  other  going  up,  up — "  Up  with  her  now !"  and  so  they 
do.  Before  it  has  found  a  resting-place,  a  man,  active  as  a 
cat,  is  halfway  up.  Now  he  is  at  the  top  ;  now — hurrah  ! — 
how  the  shouts  rend  the  air,  for  he  has  the  boy  in  one  arm 
and  the  girl  in  the  other,  and  tells  the  mother  to  follow.  She 
hesitates.  What  for  ?  The  noble  fireman  sees  at  a  glance, 
stops  a  moment,  pulls  off  his  coat  and  throw?  it  to  her — 
"now" — down  they  go — now  they  are  safe.  Safe  with  life — 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  31 

not  a  thing  else  on  earth  but  her  two  fatherless  children,  her 
only  covering  a  fireman's  coat.  Where  is  her  husband  now  ? 
Where  he  will  never  see  them  again ;  for  while  his  attendant 
slept  he  tore  the  bandages  from  his  wound,  and  then  slept 
himself — a  sleep  that  one  voice  alone  will  awaken.  Judge 
him  not  harshly  ;  he  was  the  victim,  not  the  criminal.  He  is 
dead  now,  tread  lightly  upon  his  grave. 

Look  to  his  wife  and  children.  It  is  they  who  need  your 
sympathy.  Raised  in  the  worst  school  on  earth — the  streets 
of  this  city,  some  of  the  Life  Scenes  of  which  I  aim  to  depict — 
the  boy  has  already  learned  to  "  prig ;"  and,  so  he  shared  the 
proceeds  with  his  father — that  father,  or  rather  the  monster 
who  made  hfe  a  devil,  would  encourage  the  boy  to  be  a 
thief.  What  could  the  mother  do  to  counteract  such  delete 
rious  influence  ?  All  day  she  must  stand  at  her  corner,  sell 
ing  fruit,  pea-nuts,  and  candy,  to  make  bread  to  feed  her  else 
starving  offspring,  and  to  keep  her  husband  out  of  the  prison 
or  alms-house. 

You  have  already  seen  the  effect  of  the  street  education 
upon  Sally ;  the  sight  of  her  playmate,  Julia  Antrim,  dressed 
in  silks  and  laces,  although  borrowed — no,  furnished,  by  "  the 
woman,"  on  hire,  for  a  purpose  more  wicked  than  murder,  for 
murder  only  kills  the  body — has  already  tempted  her  towards 
the  same  road — to  that  broad  path  to  woe ;  not  in  the  future, 
but  here  present  with  us  every  day ;  and  she  has  already 
determined  that  she  will  follow  it  as  soon  as  "  she  gets  big 
enough." 

Who  shall  rescue  her? 


32  HOT     CORN. 

The  danger  is  still  more  imminent  now.  Houseless,  naked, 
starving  in  the  street,  how  shall  she  live  ?  One  step,  one  reso 
lution,  will  take  her  to  the  clothes-lending  harpy,  who  fattens 
upon  the  life-blood  of  young  girls,  whom  she  dooms  to  the 
fate  of  Ixion  for  the  remainder  of  their  lives  ;  for  her  garmen-ts 
are  the  shirts  of  Nessus  to  all  who  wear  them. 

She  feels  that  she  is  big  enough  now — big  enough  to  begin. 
Younger  girls  than  her  are  night-walkers.  Julia  is  no  older, 
and  but  little  bigger,  and  she  has  often  stopped  in  her  walk 
to  eat  hot  corn  or  pea-nuts  with  Sally,  and  show  her  shining 
gold,  trying  to  tempt  her  to  go  and  do  likewise.  She  has  an 
interest,  too,  in  the  temptation,  for  she  has  told  Mrs.  Brown 
of  her  old  playmate,  Sally  Eaton,  and  how  good-looking  she 
was ;  and  Mrs.  Brown  has  been  to  see  her,  has  bought  her 
merchandise,  and  spoken  words  of  soul-trapping  flattery,  and 
promised  Julia  a  present  of  a  new  silk  dress — that  is,  just  as 
good  as  new,  it  had  just  been  bought  by  a  girl  whom  she 
turned  out  of  doors  because  she  could  not  pay  her  way— if 
she  will  coax  Sally  to  come  and  live  with  her. 

And  so  she  has  been  sorely  tempted.     Eve  was  so,  and  fell. 

These  tempting  words  are  now  running  through  the  brain  of 
Sally,  as  she  stands  in  the  crowd,  wrapt  in  a  blanket,  kindly 
lent  her,  with  her  mother  and  little  Willie,  looking  at  their 
home  and  every  earthly  thing  going  up  in  flame  and  smoke 
heavenward.  Her  mother  weeps,  for  the  first  time  in  long 
years.  Long,  long,  had  she  steeled  her  heart  against  such 
indulgence ;  its  pent  up  fountains  burst  now.  Not  for  grief; 
no,  they  were  tears,  such  as  she  shed  when  that  girl  was  born. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  33 

How  she  cried,  and  thanked  God,  and  pressed  the  hand  of  the 
fireman  and  thanked  him  for  saving  her  children's  lives,  dearer 
to  her  than  all  her  household  goods. 

How  little  he  thought  of  the  noble  act.  He  almost 
repulsed  her  and  her  gratitude. 

"  There,  that'll  do,  old  woman.  You  had  better  be  getting 
in  somewhere." 

Somewhere  !     Yes,  somewhere !     Where  ? 

That  is  the  question.  The  crowd  shout  at  the  heroic  deeds 
of  the  firemen,  and  would  carry  them  in  triumph  through  the 
streets,  or  bring  out  baskets  of  champaigne  to  drink  libations 
to  their  honor,  for  saving  two  helpless  children'  from  the 
flames.  Saved  for  what?  To  stand  naked  in  the  street! 
No.  Let  them  go  to  their  friends.  They  have  none.  Yes, 
they  have,  but  not  relatives.  A.  few  dollars  are  put  into  the 
mother's  hand,  but  who  will  take  her  in  ?  who  will  give  her  a 
home?  One  that  three  years  ago  had  no  home  himself. 
One  who  had  been  more  drunken  than  Bill  Eaton — had  been 
drunk  for  forty  years.  He  is  sober  now — you  shall  hear 
directly  how  he  became  so. 

A  man  advanced  in  years,  say  more  than  half  a  century, 
followed  by  a  tall,  fine-formed,  well-dressed,  bright-eyed  girl, 
about  one-third  her  father's  age,  press  through  the  crowd  to 
where  the  widow  and  her  children  stand,  take  them  by  the 
hand  and  lead  on,  with  the  simple  words,  "  Come  with  us." 

It  needs  but  few  such  words,  spoken  in  such  kind  tones,  to 
the  afflicted  to  lead  them  into  paths  of  peace,  and  hope,  and 
joy. 

2* 


34  HOT     CORN. 

Thu  mother  went  forward  with  a  sort  of  mechanical 
motion  of  the  limbs,  unaided  by  any  impulse  of  the  mind. 
Willie  followed,  as  the  lamb  follows  the  ewe,  .whether  to 
green  fields  or  the  butcher's  shambles. 

Sally  was  more  independent.  She  was  on  the  point  of 
being  entirely  so,  but  a  moment  before.  Now  she  clung  to 
her  girlish  companion,  as  the  wrecked  mariner  to  hope.  Had 
hope  come  one  minute  later,  she  had  been  led  by  the  tempter 
that  was  gnawing  at  her  heart-strings,  to  slip  away  from  her 
mother,  and  in  one  hour  afterwards,  she  would  have  been 
knocking  at  the  ever-ready-to-open  door  of  Mrs.  Brown,  and 
once  passing  that  threshold,  woe,  woe,  woe,  had  been  written 
upon  every  page  of  her  life.  Once  having  passed  that  door, 
every  other  but  its  like  had  been  closed  against  her  for  ever. 
For  the  sin  of  entering  that  door,  in  her  young  years,  the 
world  would  never  forgive  her.  No  matter,  that  gaudily 
dressed  and  luxuriously  fed  tempters  had  beset  her  and  led 
her  in.  Such  tempters — such  school  teachers  for  city  chil 
dren  are  allowed  to  monopolise  the  Broadway  sidewalks,  and 
hold  their  infant  evening  schools,  if  not  by  authority  of  the 
common  council,  at  least  by  permission  and  countenance  of  the 
chief  of  police  and  all  his  "  stars."  No  Proserpine  can  walk 
this  street  at  night  alone,  without  meeting,  or  at  least  sub 
jecting  herself  to,  the  sad  fate  of  Proserpine  of  old. 

Few  of  those  we  meet  in  our  late  walks,  are  Proserpines  or 
Vestas ;  although  they  may  be  goddesses  of  fire. 

Seek  not  to  lift  the  veil,  you  will  find  Pandora  there  ; 
Blame  not  the  girl  who  got  her  teachings  in  such  a  street,  if, 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  35 

ill  her  deep  adversity  she  was  tempted — tempted  to  leave  that 
mother  and  brother,  and  slip  away  in  the  crowd,  to  go  where 
she  knew  she  would  find  a  home.  Where  else  should  she 
go  ?  She  knew  of  none.  No  one  of  all  that  crowd  offered  to 
take  her  home  with  him.  She  had  no  hope.  She  was  a  fit 
subject  for  despair,  and  despair  is  the  father  of  temptation. 
What  a  blessed  thing  is  hope,  charity,  and  a  will  to  do  good  ; 
when  it  flows  from  one  young  girl  to  another ! 

But  who  is  it  says,  "  come  with  us  ?"  The  voice  seemed 
familiar,  and  yet  not  familiar  to  Sally's  ear.  If  the  person 
had  been  clothed  in  such  a  garb  of  poverty  as  she  herself  had 
always  worn,  she  would  have  known  her,  although  it  was  three 
years  since  they  had  met.  She  was  not ;  she  wore  a  neat 
tidy  calico  frock,  and  clean  white  sun-bonnet,  hastily  put  on, 
and  altogether  looked  so  neat,  so  smart,  so  comfortable,  as 
though  she  had  a  home  which  she  meant  to  take  them  to, 
when  she  said,  "  come  with  us,"  that  the  tempter's  spell  was 
broken.  Sally  would  not  have  gone  with  Julia  Antrim,  for  all 
her  gold  and  silks,  good  suppers  and  other  enjoyments.  The 
words  were  few  and  common-place.  How  often  the  mother 
and  children  had  heard  them  before — "  come  with  us.'1  But 
they  never  sounded  as  they  did  this  night.  There  is  some 
thing  in  the  tone,  as  well  as  words.  There  is  a  magnetic 
power  in  kindness.  Kind  words  are  always  winning,  wheth 
er  from  friend  or  stranger.  These  came  from  strangers.  Not 
altogether  so ;  the  man  had  been  one  of  the  drunken  com 
panions  of  Bill  Eaton  ;  had  helped  to  make  him  such,  and 


30  HOT     CORN. 

now  lie  was  going  to  pay  part  of  the  damage  to  his  family. 
The  girl,  in  her  father's  drunken  days,  had  been  one  of  Sally's 
street  companions ;  they  had  begged,  and  stole,  and  peddled 
hot  corn  and  pea-nuts  together.  But  Sally  knew  her  not. 
How  could  she  ?  Then  she  was,  ragged  and  dirty,  far  worse 
than  Sally ;  her  parents  were  far  poorer,  and  lived  in  a  worse 
room,  one  of  the  worst  in  Centre  street,  and  both  of  them 
were  great  drunkards,  and  she  was,  so  everybody  said,  "  the 
worse  child  that  ever  run  unhung." 

How  could  she  know  the  well  behaved,  nice  looking  young 
lady,  walking  by  her  side.  But  she  did  know  that  she  spoke 
kind  words  in  a  sweet  tone,  and  her  heart  was  touched,  and 
she  went  on  with  a  light  step.  That  blanket  wrapped  a 
happier  heart  that  night,  than  ever  fluttered  under  the  silk 
dress  of  her  former  playmate,  Julia  Antrim. 

They  went  on ;  the  old  man  gave  his  arm  to  the  widow  and 
led  the  little  boy ;  the  daughter  walked  with  Sally.  They 
enter  the  front  door  of  a  good  house — when  did  either  ever 
enter  the  front  door  before — up  one  flight  of  clean  stairs,  and 
there  is  their  home,  a  room,  and  two  bed-rooms,  and  kitchen  ; 
small  to  be  sure,  but  a  most  comfortable  home,  for  the  old 
man  and  his  daughter.  He  was  a  carpenter,  and  made  from 
a  dollar  and  a  half  to  two  dollars  a  day  ;  she  was  a  stock- 
maker,  and  «ould  earn  from  three  to  five  dollars  a  week, 
enough  to  pay  nearly  all  expenses.  "  Three  years  ago,"  said 
he,  "  I  was  the  most  hopeless  drunkard  that  ever  tumbled 
into  a  Centre  street  cellar.  And  my  wife but  no  matter — 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  37 

ehe  is  in  heaven  now.  All  that  gir^s  work.  She  reformed 
us  ;  she  made  me  a  sober  man,  and,  God  willing,  I  shall  never 
fill  a  drunkard's  grave." 

"  Oh,  if  she  could  only  reform  my  husband,  how  I  would 
bless  her." 

"  It  is  too  late." 

"  No,  no ;  it  is  never  too  late  ;  while  there  is  life  there  is 
hope." 

"  Yes,  true ;  but — " 

"  But  what  ?  what  is  it  ?  what  do  you  know  P 

"  Why,  you  see,  ma'am,  I  was  in  the  crowd  last  night  when 
the  accident  happened.  It  was  me  that  first  picked  him  up ; 
and  so,  you  see,  I  went  up  with  him.  It  was  me  that  told 
you  that  you  couldn't  go,  'cause  I  knew  how  'twas  with  the 
children,  and  how  you  hadn't  much  to  do  with  at  home ;  for  I 
had  been  sort  o'  watching  Bill,  and  he  had  promised  to  go  with 
me  this  very  night  to  sign  the  pledge ;  and  so,  you  see,  I  went 
up  with  him,  and  they  dressed  his  wounds,  and'  I  knew  he 
wouldn't  get  over  it,  his  blood  was  so  bad,  and  it  was  so 
warm ;  but  he  might  have  lived  a  while,  and  so  when  they  got 
things  fixed,  I  thought  I  would  come  down  and  tell  you  about 
it ;  but  just  as  I  got  down  to  the  gate,  a  fellow  came  running 
after  me  to  go  back — it  was  a'most  morning  then — and  so 
back  I  went.  They  said  he  had  got  crazy  while  T  was  in  the 
room  with  another  old  friend,  and  when — when  I — I — " 

"  Yes,  I  see ;  he  is  dead." 

"  Yes ;  he  is  dead.  When  I  came  back  he  was  about  gone, 
but  he  was  just  as  rational  as  I  am  now.  '  Oh,  Jim,'  said  he, 


38  HOT    CORN. 

*  Jim  Reagan,  if  I  had  only  taken  the  pledge  when  you  did, 
I  should  have  been  a  man  now.  But  I  am  glad  I  am  going. 
My  folks  will  be  a  great  deal  better  off  without  me.'  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  he  was  my  husband — their  father — he 
might  have  reformed." 

" '  Tell  them,'  said  he,  *  that  I  am  dying,  and  that  for  the 
first  time  in  ten  years  I  feel  as  though  I  had  my  senses.  If  I 
could  see  them  and  know  they  forgave  me  all  the  wrongs  I  have 
inflicted  upon  them  !  Do  you  think  my  wife  could  forgive — '  " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  everything,  everything." 

"  So  I  told  him,  and  that  seemed  to  quiet  him.  And  then 
I  begged  him  to  forgive  me  for  what  .1  had  done  towards 
making  him  a  drunkard.  '  Oh,'  says  he,  '  I  can  forgive  every 
body — even  those  who  used  to  sell  it  to  us,  who  used  to  take 
the  bread  out  of  our  children's  mouths  for  liquor,  but  I  never 
can  forgive  those  who  made  the  law,  or  licensed  them  to  mur 
der  us.  I  forgive  everybody  else  that  ever  injured  me,  and 
I  die  in  peace.  Tell  my  wife  I  die  loving  her-  God  bless  her 
and  my  poor  children,  what  will  become  of  them  1  Good  bye, 
Jim  ;  go  and  see  my  wife,  and  tell  her  good  bye,  and  that  I 
die  as  I  wish  I  had  lived ;  but  it  is  too  late,  too  late.  God 
bless  my  wife !' 

"I  could  not  speak,  I  turned  my  eyes  away  a  minute, 
looked  again,  and  poor  Bill  Eaton  was  gone — gone  to  Hea 
ven,  I  am  sure,  if  sincere  repentance  would  take  him  there. 
Well,  you  see,  I  could  not  do  anything  more  for  poor  Bill,  for 
he  was  gone  where  we  must  all  go  pretty  soon,  and  so  I  come 
down  and  waked  up  Maggie." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  39 

There  was  a  start — a  sudden  wakening  up  to  consciousness 
Dn  the  part  of  Sally,  &}•  <3  had  recognised  the  name. 

"  And  says  I,  Maggie,  daughter,  come  get  up,  and  go  with 
me  to  see  a  poor  widow  and  children  in  distress.  Oh,  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  how  she  bounded  out  of  bed — we  sleep 
in  beds,  good  clean  beds,  now,  and  how  quick  she  dressed 
herself,  and  how  neat,  and  cheerful,  and  pretty  she  looked,  and 
how  sweetly  she  said,  'now,  father,  I  am  ready,  who 'is  it?' 
and  when  I  told  her,  how  her  heart  bounded  with  joy,  and 
then  she  told  me  she  knew  Sally,  but  had  not  seen  her  for  a 
long  time,  and  so,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  out,  and  you  know  the 
rest.  Poor  Bill !" 

"  Oh,  that  I  could  have  seen  him — could  have  heard  him 
speak  soberly  and  affectionately  once  more — I  think  I  could 
have  given  him  up  without  a  murmur." 

"  No.  You  would  not  have  been  willing  to  give  him  up  to 
die,  just  as  he  had  begun  to  live.  Be  content,  you  must  not 
murmur.  Who  knows  but  all  this  overwhelming  affliction 
will  work  together  for  your  good,  and  your  children's  good." 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  am  sure  it  will  for  mine.  It  has  already, 
for  I  will  be  like  Maggie ;  don't  you  remember  Maggie  ?" 

"  No.  I  don't  recollect  but  one  Maggie — '  Wild  Maggie  of 
the  Five  Points ' — the  most  mischievous,  ragged,  dirty  little 
beggar  in  all  that  dreadful  neighborhood  ;  and  her  father,  the 
most  filthy  drunkard  I  ever  saw.  Why  he  was  a  great  deal 
worse  than ." 

"  Your  husband.  Speak  it  out,  I  am  not  ashamed  to  own 
it,  now  I  have  reformed." 


40  HOT     CORN. 

"  You — you,  not  you ;   this  is  not  Maggie." 

"Yes,  mother,  this  is  'Wild  Maggie,'  and  this  is  her 
father.  This  nice  young  lady,  that  said  so  sweetly,  '  Come 
with  us,'  this  is  'Wild  Maggie,'  and  this  is — is — " 

"  Old  Jim  Reagan,  the  miserable  old  drunkard,  that  used  to 
live  in  a  miserable  cellar,  in  Centre  street,  and  finally  got 
turned  out  of  that,  and  this  is  Maggie,  and  this  is  our  home." 

And  he  looked  around  proudly  upon  the  comforts  of  this 
honre,  and  contrasted  them  with  the  miseries  of  that. 

Now  Margaret — Mag  or  Maggie,  no  longer — began  to  "  fly 
around."  Breakfast  was  to  be  got,  and  what  was  much  more 
difficult,  a  full-sized  woman,  a  half-grown  girl,  and  a  quarter- 
grown  boy,  were  to  be  clothed.  How  was  it  to  be  done  ? 
One  of  her  dresses,  "  with  a  tuck," — tucks  are  fashionable  in 
these  days — was  soon  made  to  fit  Sally.  The  father  said,  he 
would  go  out  and  get  some  clothes  for  Mrs.  Eaton  and  little 
Willie,  for,  thank  God,  he  was  able  to  do  it,  for  what  he  saved 
by  soberness,  not  only  enabled  him  to  live  and  clothe  himself, 
but  to  fulfil  that  best  of  all  Christian  injunctions,  to  be'kind 
to  the  widows  and  fatherless,  and  he  did  not  know  of  any 
that  he  was  under  more  obligations  to  than  the  wife  and  chil 
dren  of  Bill  Eaton,  and,  God  willing,  he  was  going  to  clothe 
them,  and  then  he  was  going  to  go  with  them  to  Mr.  Pease, 
the  man  that  had  been  the  means  of  reclaiming  him,  and 
get  them  a  home  in  the  House  of  Industry,  until  they 
could  find  some  other  one,  or  a  way  to  earn  a  living. 

Apparently  it  was  not  willed  that  he  should  Dpend  his 
Bounty  store  to  clothe  the  naked  at  this  time ;  the  will  to  do 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW     YORK.  •  41 

so  was  equally  acceptable  to  the  great  Will,  as  though  the 
deed  were  done,  for  just  now  there  was  a  rap  at  the  door 
indicating  an  early  visitor.  Who  could  it  be  ?  Margaret  ran, 
down  to  see.  A  boy  from  a  second-hand  clothing  store, 
entered  with  a  large  bundle. 

"  I  wants  to  know  as  how  if  the  woman  that  was  burnt  out 
is  here  I" 

"Yes." 

"  And  a  little  boy  and  gal  ?" 

"  Yes. " 

"  This  is  the  place  then.  Are  you  the  gal  what  was  at  the 
fire  and  said,  *  come  with  us  ?'  " 

"  Yes,  why  do  you  ask  that  ?" 

"  'Cause  the  gentleman  told  me  to  ask,  and  when  I  was 
sure  I  was  right,  to  give  the  gal  these  three  gold  pieces,  one 
for  each  word,  and  the  bundle  of  clothes  and  the  letter  to  the 
woman.  That's  all.  So  here  they  are.  I  am  sure  I  is  right 
for  you  don't  look  as  though  you  could  tell  a  lie  if  you  tried. 
Why  what  ails  the  gal  ?  I'll  be  blamed  if  I  see  anything  to 
cry  about.  Why,  hang  me,  what  does  it  mean  ?  I  feel  just  so 
I  should  cry  too  if  I  stayed  in  this  house  long.  So  good  bye. 
I  am  sure  it  is  all  right  ?" 

And  the  door  closed  behind  him,  and  he  was  gone.  What 
could  it  mean  ?  Was  she  dreaming  ?  No  !  There  lay  the 
bundle,  there  glistened  the  half  eagles  in  her  hand.  It  could 
not  be  a  dream,  yet  it  was  a  mystery.  How  could  any  one 
know  so  soon  that  her  roof  contained  one  so  needy  ?  Who 
had  heard  those  words,  those  three  little  words,  every  one  of 


42  HOT     CORN. 

which  had -turned  to  gold?  Yes,  and  will  yet  turn  to  fruit  more 
precious. 

How  she  wished  she  had  asked  the  boy  who  it  was,  who 
had  been  so  suddenly  raised  up,  so  mysteriously  sent  to  visit 
the  widow  in  her  affliction.  Perhaps  the  letter  would  tell. 
So  she  took  it  and  the  bundle  up  stairs  and  opened  both. 
One  contained  full  suits  for  the  mother,  daughter,  and  little 
boy,  all  black — the  other  was  a  letter  to  Mr.  Pease. 

uCan  this  be  the  work  of  man?"  said  Mrs.  Eaton ;  "who 
knew,  who  could  know,  that  I  must  wear  the  widow's  weeds, 
so  soon  ?" 

"There  is  a  spirit  of  intelligence  which  maketh  known 
secret  things.  How  could  any  one  without  such  spiritual  aid 
know  that  you  was  a  widow,  that  you  was  destitute,  that  we 
had  bid  you  come  with  us,  that  I  was  just  going  out  to  buy 
clothes,  and  here  they  come  like  manna  in  the  wilderness  to 
Israel's  host.  Who  will  deny  spiritual  influence  and  special  in 
terposition  now  ?" 

Who  will  believe  it,  when  they  are  told  how  all  this  seem 
ing  mystery  will  melt  away  with  the  shades  of  the  night 
which  brought  it  into  the  minds  of  these  simple  people  ? 

"But  what  is  in  the  letter,  my  child,  does  th»t  tell  anytning?" 

"  Nothing,  father ;  it  is  addressed  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Pease,  at 
the  Five  Points  House  of  Industry,  requesting  him  to  give  a 
home  to  a  poor  woman  and  two  children,  and  says  the  writer 
will  see  him  about  it  soon." 

"Ah,  that  is  just  where  I  intended  to  take  them,  after  the 
funeral." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  43 

"  Yes,  and  see  how  nicely  these  clothes  fit  them,  just  a8 
well  as  though  made  on  purpose.  How  could  anybody  guess 
so  well  ?" 

"  It  is  no  guess  work.  There  is  something  more  than  guess 
work  about  this." 

So  'here  was. 

"  Breakfast  is  ready,  father.'* 

"  Then  let  us  eat  it  in  thankfulness  and  then." 

And  then ! 


44  HOT    CORN. 


CHAPTER  n.* 

LITTLE  KATY. A  MIDNIGHT  INTERVIEW. 

What  is  said  in  this,  will  apply  to  everything  similar. 

"  Here's  your  nice  Hot  Corn,  smoking  hot,  smoking  hot 
just  from  the  pot !"  Hour  after  hour  one  evening,  as  I  sat 
over  the  desk,  this  cry  came  up  in  a  soft,  plaintive  voice, 
under  my  window,  which  told  me  of  one  of  the  ways  of  the 
poor  to  eke  out  means  of  subsistence  in  this  over-burdened, 
ill-fed,  and  worse-lodged  home  of  misery — of  so  many  without 
means,  who  are  constantly  crowding  into  the  dirtiest  purlieus 
of  this  notoriously  dirty  city,  where  they  are  exposed  to  the 
daily  chance  of  death  from  some  sudden  outbreaking  epi 
demic  like  that  now  desolating  the  same  kind  of  streets  in 
New  Orleans,  and  swallowing  up  its  thousands  of  victims 
from  the  same  class  of  poverty-stricke-n,  uncomfortably-pro 
vided  for  human  beings,  who  know  not  how,  or  have  not  the 
power,  to  flee  to  the  healthy  hills  and  green  fields  of  the 
country.  Here  they  live — barely  live — in  holes  almost  as 
hot  as  the  hot  corn,  the  cry  of  which  rung  in  my  ears  from 
dark  till  midnight. 

*  This  chapter  was  published  under  the  simple  title  of  "  Hot  Corn," 
among  the  "  City  Items"  of  the  New  York  Daily  Tribune,  Augus;  5, 
1853.  It  is  but  slightly  altered  from  the  original  text. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  45 

"  Hot  corn !  hot  corn  !  here's  your  nice  hot  corn,"  rose  up 
in  a  faint,  child  like  voice,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
aroused  by  the  sound  of  my  step  as  I  was  about  entering  the 
Pa*k,  while  the  city  clock  told  the  hour  when  ghosts  go  forth 
upon  their  midnight  rambles.  I  started,  as  though  a  spirit 
had  given  me  a  rap,  for  the  sound  seemed  to  come  out  of  one 
of  the  iron  posts  which  stand  as  sentinels  over  the  main 
entrance,  forbidding  all  vehicles  to  enter,  unless  the  driver 
takes  the  trouble  to  pull  up  and  tumble  out  of  the  way  one 
of  the  aforesaid  posts,  which  is  not  often  done,  because  one 
of  them,  often,  if  not  always,  is  out  of  its  place,  giving  free 
ingress  to  the  court-yard,  or  livery  stable  grounds  of  the  City 
Hall,  which,  in  consideration  of  the  growth  of  a  few  misera 
ble  dusty  brown  trees  and  doubtful  colored  grass-patches,  we 
call  "the  Park." 

Looking  over  the  popt  I  discovered  $LQ  owner  of  the  hot 
corn  cry,  in  the  person  of  an  emaciated  little  girl  about 
twelve  years  old,  whose  dirty  shawl  was  nearly  the  color  of 
the  rusty  iron,  and  whose  face,  hands,  and  feet,  naturally  white 
and  delicate,  were  grimuied  with  dirt  until  nearly  of  the 
same  color.  There  were  two  white  streaks  running  down 
from  the  soft  blue  eyes,  that  told  of  the  hot  scalding  tears 
that  were  coursing  their  way  over  that  naturally  beautiful 
face. 

"  Some  corn,  sir,"  lisped  the-  little  sufferer,  as  she  saw  I  had 
stopped  to  look  at  her,  hardly  daring  to  speak  to  one  who  did 
not  address  her  in  rough  tones  of  command,  such  as  "  give 
me  some  corn,  you  little  wolfs  whelp,"  or  a  name  still  more 


46  HOT     CORN. 


opprobrious  both  tq  herself  and  mother.     Seeing  I  had  no 
look  of  contempt  for  her,  she  said,  piteously,  "  please  buy 


some  corn,  sir." 


"  No,  my  dear,  I  do  not  wish  any ;  it  is  not  very  healthy 
in  such  warm  weather  as  this,  and  especially  so  late  at  night " 

"  Oh  dear,  then,  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  Why,  go  home.  It  is  past  midnight,  and  such  little  girls 
as  you  ought  not  to  be  in  the  streets  of  this  bad  city  at  this 
time  of  night." 

"  I  can't  go  home — and  I  am  so  tired  and  sleepy.    Oh  dear !" 

"  Cannot  go  home.     Why  not?" 

"  Oh,  sir,  my  mother  will  whip  me  if  I  go  home  without 
selling  all  my  corn.  Oh,  sir,  do  buy  one  ear,  and  then  I 
shall  have  only  two  left,  and  I  am  sure  she  might  let  little  Sis 
and  me  eat  them,  for  I  have  not  had  anything  to  eat  since 
morning,  only  one  apple  the  man  gave  me,  and  part  of 
one  he  threw  away.  I  could  have  stole  a  turnip  at  the 
grocery  when  I  went  to  get — to  get  something  in  the  pitcher 
for  mother,  but  I  dared  not.  I  did  use  to  steal,  but  Mr.  Pease 
says  it  is  naughty  to  steal,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  naughty, 
indeed  I  don't ;  and  I  don't  want  to  be  a  bad  girl,  like  Lizzy 
Smith,  and  she  is  only  two  years  older  than  me,  if  she  does 
dress  fine ;  'cause  Mr.  Pease  says  she  will  be  just  like  old 
drunken  Kate,  one  of  these  days.  Oh  dear !  now  there  goes 
a  man,  and  I  did  not  cry  hot  corn,  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  Do !  There,  that  is  what  you  shall  do,"  as  I  dashed  the 
corn  in  the  gutter.  "  Go  home ;  tell  your  mother  you  have 
sold  it  all,  and  here  is  the  money." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  47 

"  Wont  that  be  a  lie,  sir  ?  Mr.  Pease  says  we  must  not 
tell  lies." 

"  No,  my  dear,  that  wont  be  a  lie,  because  I  have  bought 
it  and  thrown  it  away,  instead  of  eating  it." 

"  But,  sir,  may  I  eat  it  then,  if  you  don't  want  it  ?" 

"  No,  it  is  not  good  for  you ;  good  bread  is  better,  and  here 
is  a  sixpence  to  buy  a  loaf,  and  here  is  another  to  buy  some 
nice  cakes  for  you.  Now  that  is  your  money ;  don't  give  it 
to  your  mother,  and  don't  stay  out  so  late  again.  Go  home 
earlier  and  tell  your  mother  you  cannot  sell  all  your  corn  and 
you  cannot  keep  awake,  and  if  she  is  a  good  mother  she  won't 
whip  you." 

"  Oh,  sir,  she  is  a  good  mother  sometimes.  But  I  am  sure 
the  grocery  man  at  the  corner  is  not  a  good  man,  or  he  would 
not  sell  my  mother  rum,  when  he  knows — for  Mr  Pease  told 
him  so — that  we  poor  children  are  starving."  Oh,  I  wish  all 
the  men  were  good  men  like  him,  and  then  my  mother  would 
not  drink  that  nasty  liquor,  and  beat  and  starve  us,  'cause 
there  would  be  nobody  to  sell  her  any — and  then  we  should 
have  plenty  to  eat." 

Away  she  ran  down  the  street  towards  that  reeking  centre 
of  filth,  poverty  and  misery,  the  noted  Five  Points  of  New 
York. 

As  I  plodded  up  Broadway,  looking  in  here  and  there  upon 
the  palatial  splendors  of  metropolitan  "  saloons" — I  think  that 
is  the  word  for  fashionable  upper  class  grog-shops — I  almost 
involuntarily  cried,  "  hot  corn,"  as  I  saw  the  hot  spirit  of  that 
grain,  under  the  various  guises  of  "  pure  gin" — "  old  rum" — 


HOT     CORN. 


"pale  brandy  "—"  pure  port" — "  Heidsick  "— or  "Lager- 
bier  " — poured  down  the  throats  of  men — and  ah !  yes,  of 
women,  too,  whose  daughters  may  some  day  sit,  at  midnight, 
upon  the  cold  curbstone,  crying  "  Hot  corn,"  to  gain  a  penny 
for  the  purchase  of  a  drink  of  the  fiery  dragon  they  are  now 
inviting  to  a  home  in  their  bosoms,  whose  cry  in  after  years 
will  be,  "Give,  give,  give,"  and  still  as  unsatisfied  as  the 
horse-leech's  daughters. 

Again,  as  I  passed  on  up  that  street,  still  busy  and  thronged 
at  midnight,  as  a  country  village  at  mid-day  intermission  of 
church  service,  ever  and  anon,  from  some  side-street,  came  up 
the  cry  of  "  Hot  corn — hot  corn  !"  and  ever  as  I  heard  it,  and 
ever  as  I  shall,  through  all  years  to  come,  I  thought  of  that 
little  girl  and  her  drunken  mother,  and  the  "  bad  man  "  at 
the  corner  grocery,  and  that  her's  was  the  best,  the  strongest 
Maine  Law  argument  which  had  ever  fallen  upon  my  listen 
ing  ear. 

Again,  as  I  turned  the  corner  of  Spring  street,  the  glare  and 
splendor  of  a  thousand  gas  lights,  and  the  glittering  cut  glass 
of  that,  for  the  first  time  lighted-up,  bar-room  of  the  Prescott 
House — so  lauded  by  the  press  for  its  magnificence — dashes 
our  eyes  and  blinds  our  senses,  till  we  are  almost  ready  to 
agree,  that  first  class  hotels  must  have  such  Five  Point  denizen- 
making  appurtenances,  as  this  glittering  room,  shamelessly, 
invitingly  open  to  the  street ;  when  that  watch-word  cry,  like 
the  pibroch's  startling  peal,  came  up  from  the  near  vicinity, 
wailing  like  a  lost  spirit  on  the  midnight  air — "  Hot  corn,  hot 


HOT  CORN  !  HERE'S  YOUR  NICE  HOT  COKN  !" 7V/-r   4,3 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  49 

corn! — here's  your  nice  hot  corn — smoking  hot — hot — hot 
corn." 

"  Yes,  yes !"  I  hear  you  cry — "  it  is  a  watchword — a  glorious 
watch  ward,  that  bids  us  do  or  die — until  the  smoking  hot, 
fiery  furnace-like  gates  of  hell,  like  this  one  now  yawning 
before  us,  shall  cease  to  be  licensed  by  a  Christian  people,  or 
send  delicate  little  girls  at  midnight  through  the  streets,  cry 
ing  *  Hot  corn,'  to  support  a  drunken  mother,  whose  first 
glass  was  taken  in  a  '  fashionable  saloon,'  or  first-class  liquor- 
selling  hotel." 

"  Hot  corn,"  then,  be  the  watchword  of  all  who  would  rather 
see  the  grain  fed  to  the  drunkard's  wife  and  children,  than 
into  the  insatiable  hot  maw  of  the  whiskey  still. 

Let  your  resolutions  grow  hot  and  strong,  every  time  you 
hear  this  midnight  city  cry,  that  you  will  devote,  if  nothing 
more, 

"  Three  grains  of  corn,  mother, 
Only  three  grains  of  corn," 

towards  the  salvation  of  the  thousand  equally  pitiable  objects 
as  the  little  girl  whose  wailing  cry  has  been  the  inciting  cause 
of  this  present  dish  of  "  Hot  Corn — smoking  hot !" 


50  HOT     CO  UN. 


CHAPTER   IE. 

WILD    MAGGIE. 
•*  A  woman  sometim«s  scorns  what  best  contents  her." 

IT  is  human  nature  to  scorn  many  things  which  would  con 
tent  us — which  do  content  us  after  we  once  taste  them. 

One  of  the  reasons  why  the  vicious  scorn  those  who  would 
mate  them  better ;  why  they  scorn  to  change  their  present 
wretched  life,  or  miserable  habitations,  is  because  they  know 
not  what  would  best  content  them. 

When  that  missionary  first  located  his  mission  to  the 
poorest  of  New  York  city  poor,  the  drunkards,  thieves,  and 
prostitutes  of  the  Five  Points,  he  was  scorned  by  those  he 
came  to  save.  He  and  his  mission  were  hated  with  all  the 
bitter  hate  which  the  evil  mind  oft  feels  for  the  good,  made 
still  more  bitter  by  the  sectarian  venom  of  ignorant  Catholics 
towards  the  hated  heretic  Protestants.  Every  annoyance  that 
low  cunning  could  invent  was  thrown  in  his  way. 

Feeling  the  inefficiency  of  the  system  so  long  and  so  use 
lessly  practiced,  of  giving  Bibles  or  tracts  to  such  people,  to 
be  sold  or  pawned  for  a  tenth  part  of  their  value,  he  began  a 
new  system.  This  was  to  give  employment  to  the  idle,  to 
teach  all,  who  would  learn,  how  to  work,  how  to  earn  their 
own  living,  and  that  industry  would  bring  more  content  than 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  61 

drunkenness  and  its  concomitant  vices.  Though  stolen  fruit 
may  be  sweet,  the  bread  of  toil  is  sweeter,  and  he  would  teach 
them  how  to  gain  it. 

One  of  the  first  efforts  made  was  work  for  the  needle; 
because  that  was  the  most  easily  started,  can  be  carried  on 
with  less  capital,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  produces  the  least 
capital — or  rather  poorest  pay  to  those  who  labor.  Yet  it  is 
better  than  idleness,  and  he  soon  found  willing  hands  to  work, 
after  he  opened  his  shop,  and  invited  all  who  would  conform 
to  the  rules,  and  were  willing  to  earn  their  bread,  rather  than 
beg  or  steal  it,  to  come  and  get  work — such  as  coarse  shirts 
and  pants — work  that  they  could  do,  many  of  them  with  skill 
and  great  rapidity,  but  such  as  they  could  not  get  trusted  with 
at  any  common  establishment — the  very  name  of  the  place 
where  they  lived  being  sufficient  to  discredit  them — so  that 
security,  which  they  could  not  give,  for  the  return  of  the  gar 
ments,  closed  the  door  against  their  very  will  to  work. 

Another  discouraging  thing  against  the  very  poor  who  did 
occasionally  get  "slop  shop  work,"  arose  from  some  gross, 
cruel,  wicked,  downright  robbery,  perpetrated  upon  "  sewing 
.women  "  by  some  incarnate  fiend  in  the  clothing  trade.  The 
difficulty  to  get  work,  the  miserably  poor  pay  offered  to  those 
who 

"  Stitch,  stitch,  stitch, 
Band  and  gusset  and  seam, 

Seam  and  gusset  and  band, 
With  eyes  and  lamp  both  burning  dim! 
With  none  to  lend  a  helping  hand," 


52  HOT     CORN. 

is  enough  to  sink  stouter  hearts  than  those  which  beat  in 
misery's  bosom. 

Sunk  in  misery,  poverty,  crime,  filth,  degradation,  want ; 
neglected  by  all  the  world ;  hated  by  those  who  should  love ; 
trodden  down  by  those  who  should,  if  they  did  a  Christian 

duty,  lift  up ;  living  in  habitations  such  as but  no  matter, 

you  shall  go  with  me,  by  and  by,  to  see  where  they  live — 
how  could  they  lift  themselves  up,  how  could  they  be  indus 
trious  and  improve  their  condition,  how  could  they  accept 
bibles  and  tracts,  with  any  promise  of  good  ? 

So  thought  the  missionary;  and  so  he  set  himself  about 
giving  them  the  means  to  labor,  with  a  hope  and  sure  promise 
of  reward. 

Some  of  those  who  sent  him  there  to  preach  salvation  to 
the  heathen  of  the  Five  Points  differed  with  him — differ  still — 
thinking  that  a  Christian  minister  degrades  himself  when  he 
goes  into  a  "  slop  shop  "  to  give  out  needle-work  to  misery's 
household — or  attempts  to  teach  industry  to  idle,  vicious  chil 
dren,  or  reform  degraded  women,  by  teaching  them  the  ways 
of  living  without  sin,  without  selling  their  bodies  to  buy  bread, 
or  in  their  despair,  to  exchange  the  last  loaf  for  rum. 

+ 

So  he  opened  a  shop — now  enlarged  into  a  "House  of 
Industry  " — and  soon  found  his  reward.  But  he  was  annoyed, 
hate4?  persecuted,  beaten — but  God  and  a  good  will  conquered. 

Among  other  petty,  vexatious  trifles — it  is  trifles  that  annoy 
— a  little  girl,  in  rags  and  filth,  with  a  mat  of  soft  "  bonny 
brown  ha:r,"  no  doubt  well  colonized,  bare-headed  and  bare 
footed,  in  cold  or  heat,  used  to  come  every  day  to  the  door, 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  63 

ringing  her  shrill  musical  voice  through  the  open  way,  through 
the  crack  or  key-hole,  if  it  was  shut,  calling  him  all  sorts  of 
opprobrious  names,  mixed  with  all  sorts  of  sentences  of  Catho 
lic  hatred  to  Protestantism,  that  showed  that  she  was  herself 
a  missionary  from  adults  of  evil  minds.  Then  she  would  call 
over  the  names  of  the  inmates,  with  all  their  catalogue  of 
crimes,  giving  little  scraps  of  their  history,  and  their  hateful 
nick-names — singing  some  of  the  songs  they  used  to  sing  in 
their  drunken  debauches  at  Pete  Williams's  ;  and  such  a  voice 
as  she  had  would  have  won  her  worshippers  in  high  life,  an 
she  had  been  with  them  and  of  them.  And  her  features  and 
blue  eyes  were  as  beautiful  as  her  voice  was  strong  and  sweet ; 
and  there  she  would  tell  him,  and  the  crowd  of  idlers  who 
came  to  listen,  and  laugh,  and  shout  at  her  cunning  tricks 
and  evident  annoyances,  for  what  purpose  he  wanted  all  them 

old 's ;  and  so  it  went  on,  day  after  day.     All  attempts 

to  get  rid  of  her  were  of  no  avail.  Scolding,  threatening, 
were  alike  unheeded.  "Catch  me  first,"  was  her  answer. 
Then  he  followed  her  to  her  home,  to  expostulate  with  her 
parents.  Vain  effort ! 

Up  Anthony  street  to  Centre ;  come  with  me,  reader,  let  us 
look  at  that  home  ! 

There  is  a  row  of  dens  all  along  upon  the  east  side  of  that 
street,  full  of  those  whom  hope  has  forsaken,  and  misery  has 
in  her  household.  Above  ground,  below  ground,  in  cellar  or 
garret,  back  room  or  front,  black  and  white,  see  how  they 
swarni  at  door  and  window,  in  hall  and  stairway,  and  out  upon 


54c  HOT    CORN. 

the  sidewalk,  all  day  in  idleness,  all  night  in  mischief  crime, 
and  sin. 

Elbow  your  way  along  among  the  standing,  and  step  over 
the  prostrate  drunken  or  sleeping  women  and  children  along 
the  side-walk.  Stop  here — here  is  a  sort  of  hole-in-the-ground 
entrance  to  a  long,  dark,  narrow  alley,  let  us  enter.  "  No, 
no,  not  there,"  you  will  exclaim.  "  Surely  human  beings 
cannot  live  there  ?" 

Yes,  they  do.  That  girl  has  just  gone  down  there,  and  wo 
will  follow. 

"  Better  not  go  there,"  says  a  young  urchin  in  the  crowd ; 
"  a  man  was  stabbed  down  there  last  night." 

Encouraging ;  but  we  enter,  and  grope  along  about  a  hun 
dred  feet,  and  a  door  opens  on  the  right,  the  girl  we  have 
followed  darts  out,  up  like  a  cat,  over  a  high  fence,  on  to  a 
roof,  up  that,  into  a  garret  window,  with  a  wild  laugh  and 
ringing  words,  "  You  didn't  do  it  this  time,  you  old  Protes 
tant  thief,  did  you?  You  want  to  catch  me,  to.  send  me  to 
*  the  Island.'  I  know  you,  you  old  missionary  villain  you. 
I  heard  Father  Phelan  tell  what  you  want  to  do  with  the 
poor  folks  at  the  Points ;  you  want  to  turn  them  out  of  house 
and  home,  and  build  up  your  grand  houses,  and  make  them 
all  go  to  hear  you  preach  your  lies  ;  you  do,  you  old  heretic, 
but  you  didn't  catch  me.  I'll  plague  you  again  to-morrow." 

We  entered  her  home — the  home  that  the  missionary  was 
trying  to  turn  her  out  of.  Can  it  be  possible  that  human 
nature  can  cling,  to  such  a  home,  and  refuse  to  be  turned  out, 
or  occupy  a  better  one. 


LIFE    SCENES    IN     NEW    YORK.  65 

The  room  is  one  of  a  "  row,"  along  the  narrow  dark  corri 
dor  we  entered,  half  sunken  below  the  ground,  with  another 
just  such  another  row  overhead,  each  ten  or  twelve  feet  square, 
with  a  door  and  one  little  window  upon  this  narrow  alley 
which  is  the  only  yard  ;  at  the  end  of  which  there  is  a  conta 
gion-breeding  temple  of  Cloacina,  common  to  all.  "*; 

In  "  the  house  "  that  we  enter,  a  man  lies  helplessly  drunk 
upon  a  dirty  rug  on  the  floor ;  a  woman,  too  much  overcome 
to  rise,  sits  propped  up  in  one  corner.  There  is  altogether, 
perhaps,  fifty  cents  worth  of  furniture  and  clothing  in  the 
room. 

And  this  is  the  loved  home  of  one  of  the  smartest,  bright 
est,  most  intelligent  little  girls  in  this  God-forsaken  neighbor 
hood. 

The  missionary  made  known  his  errand  and  was  told  that 
he  might  do  anything  he  pleased  with  the  girl,  if  he  would 
catch  her  and  tame  her. 

"  For,"  said  her  mother,  "what  do  we  want  with  her  at  home 
— at  home  ! — She  is  never  here,  only  to  sleep." 

Only  to  sleep !  Where  did  she  sleep  ?  On  the  damp, 
bare  floor,  of  course,  where  else  could  she  sleep  in  that  home  ? 

The  next  morning  various  devices  were  contrived  to  catch 
her,  to  force  her  into  a  better  home.  All  failed. 

When  did  force  ever  succeed  with  one  of  her  sex  ? 

If  the  serpent  had  bid  our  first  mother  to  eat  the  apple,  she 
would  have  thrown  it  down  the  villain's  throat,  splitting  his 
forked  tongue  in  its  passage. 

Finally  it  was  arranged  that  a  boy,  noted  as  "  a  runner," 


56  HOT     CORN. 

should  stand  behind  the  door,  and  when  she  came  with  her 
jibes,  sometimes  provoking  mirth,  and  sometimes  ire,  he 
should  jump  out  and  catch  her. 

"  Catch  me  if  you  can  !"  and  away  went  she,  away  went  he, 
under  this  cart  and  over  that.  Now  he  will  have  her — his 
hand  is  outstretched  to  seize  his  chase — vain  hope — she  drops 
suddenly  in  his  path,  and  he  goes  headlong  down  a  cellar. 
When  he  came  up  there  was  a  great  shout,  and  a  great  many 
dirty  bare-footed  girls  about,  but  that  one  was  nowhere  m 
sight.  So  back  he  goes,  enters  the  door ;  and  a  wild  laugh 
follows  him  close  upon  his  heels. 

"  You  did'nt  catch  me  this  time,  did  you  I  Don't  you  want 
another  race?  Ha,  ha,  ha." 

And  away  she  went,  singing  :^ 

"Up,  up,  and  away  with  the  rising  sun, 

The  chase  is  now  before  ye ; 
Up,  up  and  away  with  hound  and  gun, 

The  chase  is  now  before  ye." 

It  was  a  chase  that  cunning  must  catch,  strength  could  not 
win.  Everybody  said  she  never  could  be  caught  and  tamed. 
She  had  run  wild  all  her  young  years.  She  was  not  by  na 
ture  vicious,  but  she  was  most  incorrigibly  mischievous.  She 
was,  so  everybody  said,  and  he  ought  to  know,  beyond  the 
hope  of  redemption.  Yet  everybody  was  mistaken.  Reader, 
you  already  know  this  girl,  for  this  is  "Wild  Maggie,  of  the 
Five  Points."  This  is  the  kind,  sweet,  tender-hearted  Mar 
garet,  you  have  read  of  in  a  former  chapter,  ministering  to  the 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  57 

wants  of  that  poor  widow  and  destitute  children,  living  in 
comfort,  with  neatness  and  industry,  and  her  father,  in  a  happy 
home  ;  and  that  father  the  poor,  miserable,  wretched,  besotted 
drunkard,  whom  we  found  in  that  wretched  hole,  in  that 
dark  alley  in  Centre  street. 

What  a  change  ! 

It  was  a  change  for  good.  It  was  a  deed  of  mercy  to 
redeem  such  a  child  as  this  from  a  course  of  life  that  has  but 
one  phase — one  worse  than  useless  object — one  wretched  ter 
mination. 

What  magic  power  had  wrought  this  change  ? 

Words  of  kindness,  charity,  hope,  teachings  of  the  happi 
ness  attendant  on  virtue,  religion,  industry  ;  by  these  the  worst 
can  be  redeemed. 

How? 

"Finding  every  effort  unavailing,"  said  the  missionary, 
"  I  changed  my  tactics.  I  was  busy  one  morning  in  the  work 
shop,  laying  out  work,  when  I  cast  my  eye  towards  the  open 
door,  and  there  saw  Wild  Maggie,  waiting  for  a  word  upon 
which  she  might  retort.  Without  seeming  to  notice  her,  1 
said,  loud  enough  for  her  to  hear,  '  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  had 
some  one  to  help  me  lay  out  this  work.'  There  was  a  look 
of  intelligence  spreading  over  her  face,  which  seemed  to  say 
as  plainly  as  looks  could  say,  *  1  could  do  that.' 

"  *  Will  you  ?'  I  said ;  she  started  as  though  I  was  mentally 
replying  to  her  passing  thoughts. 

"She  did  not  say,  'Ye?,'  but  she  thought  it.  I  had 
touched  a  chord.  -*ai 

3* 


58  HOT     CORN. 

"  '  Maggie,'  said  I,  with  all  the  tone  and  looks  of  kindness 
I  could  command,  '  Maggie,  my  girl,  come  in ;  you  can  help 
me ;  I  know  you  are  smart,  come,  I  will  give  you  sixpence  if 
you  will  help  me  a  little  while.'  She  stepped  into  the  door, 
looked  behind  it  suspiciously,  and  started  back.  She  remem 
bered  the  trap.  'No,  I  won't.  You  want  to  catch  me  and 
send  me  to  the  Island.  I  know  you,  you  old  Protestant. 
Old  Kate  told  me  yesterday,  that  you  had  sent  off  Liz.  Smith, 
Nance  Hastings,  and  hump-backed  Lize,  and  a  lot  of  girls.' 

"  *  So  I  have,  but  not  to  the  Island.  They  have  all  got 
good  places  where  they  are  contented  and  happy.  But  I 
don't  send  anybody  away  that  don't  want  to  go.  I  won't 
send  you  away,  nor  won't  keep  you  if  you  don't  want  to 
stay.' 

" '  Will  you  let  me  come  out  again,  if  I  come  in,  when  I 
am  a  mind  to  ?' 

"  *  Yes,  certainly,  my  dear  child.' 

"  My  dear  child  !"  Where  has  she  ever  heard  those  words  ? 
In  former  days,  before  her  father  and  mother  had  sunk  so 
low,  as  they  now'  are,  when  she  used  to  go  to  school,  to 
church,  and  sabbath-school,  and  wear  clothes,  such  as  she 
was  not  ashamed  of.  Want  of  clothing  will  sink  the  highest 
to  the  lowest  state  of  rags,  and  dirt,  and  misery. 

" '  Will  you  swear,  that  you  will  let  me  come  out,  and  you 
won't  beat  me.  Limping  Bill  and  one-eyed  Luce,  his  woman, 
says,  you  licked  little  Sappy  till  she  died.' 

"*  They  are  great  liars.' 

u '  So  they  say  you  are.    That  you  preach  nothing  but  lies.' 


LIFE     SCENES    IN     NEW   YORK.  fij) 

*  '  Well,  I  won't  lie  to  you,  Maggie,  and  I  won  t  whip  you, 
but  I  .won't  swear.  Did  you  ever  know  any  good  man 
swear  ?' 

"  She  thought  a  moment,  and  replied,  *  Well,  I  don't  know 
—I  know  them  that  swear  the  most  will  lie.  Will  you  let 
the  door  stand  open  ?  If  you  will  I  will  come  in  I ' 

" '  Yes,'  and  in  she  came. 

"  '  Now,  what  do  you  want  I  should  do  V 

"  *  There,  do  you  look  at  me.  I  am  laying  out  shirts  for 
the  women  to  sew.  That  pile,  there,  that  is  the  body ;  this, 
the  sleeves ;  that,  the  collar ;  these,  the  wristbands ;  these, 
the  gussets  ;  here  are  six  buttons,  and  here  is  the  thread  to 
make  it,  and  then  it  will  be  a  shirt  when  made.  Now  we 
roll  it  up  and  tie  a  string  around  it ;  now  it  is  ready  to  give 
out.  Now,  you  can  do  that  just  as  well  as  I  can,  and  you 
don't  know  how  much  it  will  help  me.' 

"  '  Yes,  I  can,  and  I  can  beat  you.' 

So  she  could.  She  was  just  as  quick  at  work  as  she  was 
at  play  and  mischief,  and  the  piles  disappeared  under  her 
nimble  fingers  much  more  rapidly  than  they  did  under  his, 
and  so  he  told  her.  Who  had  ever  praised  her  work  before, 
though  all  had  "  her  deviltry  ?" 

The  spirit  of  reformation  had  already  commenced  its 
glorious  work. 

"  When  that  job  was  finished,  she  turned  her  sweet  blue 
eyes  upon  me,  with  an  expression  which  said  as  plain  as  eyes 
can  speak, '  I  am  sorry  that  job  is  done,  I  like  that,  can't  you 
give  me  another  V 


00 


HOT     CORN. 


"  There  was  no  other  which  she  could  do  just  then,  but  she 
said,  *  What  shall  I  do  now  ?' 

"  Well,  Maggie,  I  have  no  more  work  for  you  to-day,  but 
here  is  your  sixpence,  I  promised  you,  and  here  are  some 
cakes ;  come  again  to-morrow,  you  can  help  me  every  day. 
I  like  your  help." 

She  did  not  want  to  go.  She  had  tasted  of  a  fruit  which 
had  opened  her  eyes,  and  she  would  fain  clothe  herself  in  fig 
leaves,  so  they  hid  the  deformity  of  dirt,  and  rags,  and  sin. 
Wild  as  the  fawn,  as  easily  as  the  fawn  subdued.  At  the 
approach  of  man,  that  timid  animal  bounds  into  the  thickest 
brake  and  hides  away ;  but  once  in  the  hands  of  man,  it  turns 
and  follows  him  to  his  home,  licking  his  hand  as  though  it 
were  with  its  own  dam.  So  was  Wild  Maggie  tamed. 

"What  shall  I  do  now?" 

What  should  she  do  ?  A  score  of  little  girls  were  huddling 
around  the  door,  for  the  news  was  out  that  Maggie,  Wild 
Maggie,  had  been  caught  and  caged,  and  they  wanted  to  see 
"  what  would  come  of  it." 

"  A  thought  struck  me,"  said  the  missionary.  "  I  asked  her 
if  she  could  read.  Yes,  and  write.  Had  she  been  to  school  I 
Yes.  Then  you  shall  play  school.  You  shall  have  these 
benches,  and  you  shall  call  in  those  children,  and  you  shall  be 
the  teacher,  and  so  you  may  play  school." 

Was  there  ever  a  happier  thought  engendered.  Maggie 
was  delighted,  the  children  came  rushing  in,  ready  for  "  a 
play  never  before  enacted  in  this  theatre." 

For  an  hour  or  more  she  plied  her  task  diligently,  and 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  61 

it  was  astonishing  with  what  effect.  How  she  reduced  her 
unruly  materials  to  order.  How  she  made  them  say,  yes, 
ma'am,  and  no,  ma'am,  to  their  school  mistress.  How  she 
made  them  sit  and  "  look  like  somebody."  Taught  this  one 
his  A  B  Cs,  and  that  one  to  spell  B-a-k-e-r.  How  she  told 
this  one  to  wash  his  face,  next  time  he  came  to  school,  and 
that  one  if  she  had  any  better  clothes,  to  wear  them.  Poor 
Maggie,  she  never  thought  of  the  poverty  of  her  own. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  "  every  one  of  you  sit  still ;  not  a  word 
of  noise,  and  no  running  out  while  I  am  gone,  or  I  shall 
punish  you  worse  than  shutting  you  up  in  a  dark  closet.  Mr. 
Pease,  will  you  look  to  my  school  a  moment  ?" 

Away  she  bounded.  Oh,  what  a  step !  Step  !  it  was  more 
like  flying.  A  moment,  hardly  time  for  a  few  pleasant  words 
to  her  school,  and  she  bounds  in  again,  with  a  little  paper 
parcel  in  her  hand.  What  could  it  mean  ?  It  means  that, 

Many  a  flower  in  wilds  unseen, 

The  sweetest  fragrance  grows  ; 
From  many  a  deep  and  hidden  spring,         , 

rrii i_i  ___a__ 


The  coolest  water  flows. 


She  first  inquires,  "  have  they  all  been  good  ?"  "  Yes,  all." 
Then  she  unwraps  her  parcel.  How  they  look  and  wonder, 
"  what  is  it  ?" 

What  is  it  ?     Simply  this. 

She  has  been  out  and  spent  her  sixpence  to  do  unto  others 
just  as  she  had  been  done  unto.  Did  ever  cakes  taste 
sweeter?  Did  ever  benevolence  better  enjoy  herself  than 


62  t  HOT    CORN. 

Maggie  did,  while  thus  distributing  her  rewards  ?  What  a 
lesson  of  self-sacrifice !  The  first  sixpence — the  whole  trea 
sure  of  this  world's  goods,  spent  to  promote  the  happiness'  of 
others.  This  was  a  hint.  It  were  a  dull  intellect  that  could 
not  improve  it.  The  children  were  further  fed,  and  bid  to 
come  again  to-morrow.  "And  this,"  said  he,  "was  the 
beginning  of  our  ragged  beggar  children  school,  that  has 
proved  such  a  blessing  to  this  neighborhood. 

"  Maggie,"  said  I,  taking  her  by  the  hand  and  looking  her 
in  the  eye.  "  Maggie,  you  have  helped  me  a  great  deal  to-day, 
will  T  ou  come  again  to-morrow  2" 

The  string  was  touched,  and  tears  flowed.  When  had 
tears,  except  tears  of  anger,  filled  those  eyes  before  \  What 
had  touched  that  string  ?  Kind  words ! 

"  If  you  will  let  me  stay,  I  wont  go  away.  I  can  learn 
to  sew.  I  can  make  these  shirts." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  and  if  you  are  here,  these  children  will  come, 
and  we  will  have  school  every  day." 

And  so  Wild  Maggie  was  Wild  Maggie  no  more.  She 
was  tamed.  Her  life  had  taken  on  a  new  phase.  To  the 
questions,  what  would  her  father  say  ?  what  would  her  mother 
say  ?  she  replied,  "  What  do  they  care  ?  what  have  they  ever 
cared  ?  Though  they  were  not  always  so  bad  as  they  now 
are." 

No,  they  were  not  always  so  bad  as  they  now  are.  None 
of  his  class  were  always  so  bad  as  they  now  are.  Once  her 
father  was  James  Reagan,  a  respectable  man,  a  good  carpen 
ter,  and  had  a  good  home.  Now  where  was  he.  Sunk,  step 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  63 

by  step,  from  hotel  to  saloon,  from  saloon  to  bar-room,  from 
bar-room  to  corner  grocery,  from  grocery  to  cellar  rum  hole, 
from  a  good  house  to  a  filthy,  underground  den  in  Centre 
street.  He  has  but  one  more  step  to  take — one  more  under 
ground  hole  to  occupy. 

But  such  as  he  may  reform.  He  did.  You  have  seen  that. 
Will  you  ask,  how  ?  You  shall  know. 

Maggie  became  one  of  the  household.  She  was  washed, 
and  fed,  and  clothed ;  and  how  she  worked,  and  learnt  every 
thing,  and  how  she  listened  at  the  temperance  meetings  to 
what  "  the  pledge  "  had  done,  and  how  she  wished  her  mother 
would  come  and  try — try  to  leave  off  drinking,  and  become 
"  the  good  mother  she  was  when  I  was  a  little  girl."  For  her 
father  she  had  no  hope.  For  her  mother,  she  determined  to  • 
persevere.  When  she  was  sober  she  would  talk,  and  cry,  and 
promise,  but  the  demon  rum  would  overcome  her,  and  then 
she  would  curse  her  daughter,  and  call  her  all  the  vile  names 
that  the  insane  devil  in  her  could  invent. 

And  so  it  went  on  ;•  Maggie  still  determined,  still  trying. 
The  right  time  came  at  last.  One  night,  Maggie  was  not  at 
the  meeting.  By  and  by,  there  was  a  little  stir  at  the  door. 
What  is  the  matter  ?  A  little  girl  is  pulling  a  woman,  almost 
by  force,  into  the  room.  It  is  Maggie  and  her  mother.  She 
has  got  her  old  ragged  dress  off,  and  looks  quite  neat  in  one 
that  Maggie  has  made  for  her.  But  she  hides  her  face.  She 

is  ashamed  to  look  those  in  the  face  she  would  have  once 

•3 

looked  down  upon.     A  woman  is  speaking — women  can  spealt  ". 
upon  temperance — just  such  a  woman  as  herself — is  it  not 


64  HOT     CORN. 

herself — is  she  awake,  or  does  she  sleep  ani  dream?  If 
awake,  she  hears  her  own  story.  The  story  of  a  woman  with 
a  drunken  husband.  And  she  traces  his  fall  from  affluence 
down  to  beggary ;  then  her  fall,  down,  down,  down,  to  a 
cellar  in  Farlow's  Court ;  there  her  husband  dies  ;  there  upon 
a  pile  of  straw  and  rags  upon  the  floor,  in  drunken  uncon 
sciousness,  she  gives  birth  to  a  child — a  living  child  by  the 
side  of  its  dead  father. 

"  What  a  night — what  a  scene,  but  you  have  not  seen  the 
worst  of  it.  The  very  heavens,  as  though  angry  at  such 
awful  use  of  the  gifts  of  reason,  and  the  abuse  of  appetite,  sent 
their  forked  messengers  of  fire  to  the  earth — less  dangerous 
than  the  fire  that  man  bottles  up  for  his  own  damnation  ;  and 
the  water  came  down  in  torrents,  pouring  into  that  cave  where 
the  dead,  and  living,  and  new*born  were  lying  together,  and 
overflowed  the  floor,  and  when  I  felt  its  chill,"  said  she,  "  I 
awaked  out  of  my  drunken  sleep,  and  felt  around  me,  to  see, 
no,  I  could  not  see,  all  was  pitch  darkness.  My  child  cried, 
and  then — then  a  whole  army  of  rats,  driven  in  by  the  rain, 
driven  by  the  water  from  the  floor,  came  creeping  on  to  me. 
Oh  !  how  their  slimy  bodies  felt  as  they  crept  over  my  face. 
Then  I  tried  to  awaken  my  husband,  but  he  would  not  wake, 
and  in  my  frenzy  I  struck  and  bit  him — bit  a  dead  man — for 
his  was  the  sleep  of  eternity.  Then  I  summoned  almost  su 
perhuman  strength,  and  creeped  up  the  stairs  and  out  into  the 
court.  I  looked  up  ;  the  storm  was  gone  ;  there  was  a  smile 
in  heaven — it  was  the  smile  of  that  murdered  babe ;  for  when 
I  had  begged  a  light,  and  went  back  again  to  that  dreadful, 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  C5 

dreadful  habitation — why  are  human  beings  permitted  to  live, 
in  such  awful  holes — has  nobody  any  care  for  human  life — 
what  did  I  see  ?  Mothers,  mothers — mothers  that  sleep  on 
soft  couches — rhear  me,  hear  me — hear  of  the  bitter  fruits 
the  rum  trade  bears — the  rats  had  devoured  the  life  blood  of 
that  child.  What  next  I  know  not.  I  know  that  I  have 
never  drank  since — never  will  again — by  signing  this  pledge 
I  was  saved — all  may  be  saved." 

"  All  ?  all  ?  Can  I — can  I  be  restored  as  you  have  been — 
can  I  shake  off  this  demon  that  has  dragged  me  down  so  low 
that  my  own  mother  would  not  know  me  ;  or  knowing,  would 
spurn  me  ?  Can  I  be  saved  ?" 

It  was  Maggie's  mother. 

"  Yes,  you,  you,  I  was  a  thousand  times  worse.  Look  at  me 
now." 

"Yes,  mother,  you.  Come."  And  she  took  her  by  the 
hand  and  led  her  up  to  the  table,  put  a  pen  in  her  hand — 
dropt  upon  her  knees — looked  up  to  her  mother  imploringly 
— up  to  heaven  prayerfully — her  lips  quivered — the  tears  roll 
ed  down  her  cheeks — "Now,  mother,  now." 

'Tis  done.  She  wrote  her  name  in  a  fair  hand — Mary  Rea 
gan — 'Tis  done. 

'  'Tis  done  ! — 'tis  done ! — wild  Maggie  cries  ; 
'Tis  done ! — 'tis  done ! — the  mother  sighs  ; 
'Tis  done  ! — 'tis  done ! — in  chorus  join, 
To  bear  aloft  the  news  along. 
'Tis  done  ! — 'tis  dene  !  a  voice  replies, 
Stand  forth,  be  strong,  and  you  shall  rise. 


00  HOT    CORN. 

.  And  so  she  did.  She  never  fell.  She  came  to  live  in  the 
house  with  Maggie.  "  I  cannot  go  back,"  she  said,  "to  live  with 
your  father,  if  I  would  stand  fast ;  and  I  cannot  think,  after 
hearing  that  woman's  story,  last  night,  of  ever  drinking  again. 

1  know  that  woman  ;  I  knew  her  when  she  was  a  girl,  one  of 
the  proudest  and  prettiest.     My  husband  has  spent  many  a 
dollar  with  hers  in  the  bar-room.     Oh  yes,  I  knew  her  well. 
I  did  not  know  her  last  night ;  but  when  she  told  me  who  she 
was — that  she  was  Elsie  Wendall — then  I  knew  her.     Oh  !  I 
could  tell  you  such  a  story — but  not  now.     No  !  no,  I  cannot 
live  with  your  father  again,  for  I  never  will  drink  any  more 
— never— never !" 

"  But  what,  if  father  will  take  the  pledge  2" 

"Oh !  then  I  should  be  a  happy  woman  again.  But  there 
is  no  hope." 

"  Yes,  there  is  hope.  I  shall  watch  him;  and,  mother,  I 
will  save  him." 

It  was  a  great  promise — a  great  undertaking  for  a  young 
girl  to  promise  with  an  "I  will."  When  did  "  I  will"  in 
woman's  mouth  ever  fail  ? 

That  will  was  the  strength  of  her  life.  It  was  for  that  she 
now  lived  and  labored.  Now  she  had  hope — now  'twas  lost 
— now  revived  again.  Now  he  worked  a  month — sober  for  a 
whole  month — then  down  he  went  if  he  happened  to  go  into 
one  of  his  old  haunts,  or  meet  with  some  of  his  old  compan 
ions,  who  said,  "  come,  Jim,  let's  take  one  drink — only  one — • 
one  won't  do  any  hurt " — but  two  follow  the  one.  Then  Maggie 
would  look  him  up,  get  him  sober  again,  and  get  him  to  work. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  67 

God  bless  that  child  !  God  did  bless  her,  for  she  stuck  to 
him,  until  he  finally  consented  to  coine  once,  just  once  to  the 
temperance  meeting — but  he  would  not  sign  the  pledge — he 
never  would  sign  away  his  liberties — no — he  was  a. free  man. 
Well  only  come,  come  and  listen — come  and  see  mother. 
That  touched  him.  He  loved  mother — Yes  he  would  come. 
The  evening  came.  Maggie  watched  every  shadow  that 
darkened  the  door.  Finally  the  last  one  seemed  to  have  en 
tered,  but  Jim  Reagan  was  not  among  them.  Maggie  could 
not  give  it  up.  She  slipped  out  into  the  street,  it  was  well 
she  did.  She  was  just  in  time.  A  knot  of  men  were  talking 
together,  of  the  tyranny  of  temperance  men,  wanting  to  make 
slaves  of  the  people,  getting  them  to  sign  away  their  rights — 
rights  their  fathers  fought  and  bled  for." 

Yes,  and  so  had  they — at  the  nose. 

They  had  just  carried  the  point,  and  started  to  follow  Gale 
Jones  over  to  his  grocery,  who  was  going  to  stand  treat  all 
round.  One  lingered  a  moment — looked  back — as  though  he 
had  promised  to  go  that  A/V  ^y — but  appetite  was  too  strong  for 
conscience,  and  he  turned  towards  the  rum-hole.  Just  then  a 
gentle  hand  is  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  a  sweet  voice  says : 

"  Father,  come  with  me,  come  and  see  mother — don't  go 
with  those  men." 

Woman  conquered. 

When  Gale  Jones  counted  noses,  to  see  which  he  should 
charge  with  the  treat  he  had  promised  "  to  stand,"  he  found 
Jim  Reagan  was  not  in  the  crowd. 

14  Why,  damn  the  fellow,  he  has  given  us  the  slip  after  all 


08  HOT    CORN 

our  trouble.  I  thought  we  had  made  a  sure  thing  of  it.  I 
tell  you  what  it  is,  boys,  we  must  manage  somehow  to  stop 
this  business,  or  trade  is  ruined.  If  people  are  not  to  be 
allowed  to  drink  anything  but  water,  there'll  be  many  an 
honest  man  out  of  business.  Times  is  hard  enough  now, 
what'll  they  be  then  ?" 

Just  then  Tom  Nolan,  the  mason — it  used  to  be  Drunken 
Tom  Nolan — was  tellingf  what  they  would  be,  at  the  tempe 
rance  meeting. 

It  was  a  propitious  time  for  Maggie.  She  led  her  father 
in,  he  hung  back  a  little,  and  tried  to  get  into  a  dark  corner 
near  the  door.  That  she  would  not  allow ;  some  of  Satan's 
imps  might  drag  him  away  from  the  very  threshold  of  salva 
tion.  She  led  him  along,  he  was  sober  now,  and  looked  sad, 
perhaps,  ashamed. 

"  James,  you  here  ?     Oh !" 

It  was  his  wife.  He  knew  her  voice,  it  was  that  of  other 
days.  He  stared  at  her ;  could  it  be  her,  so  neat,  and  clean, 
and  well  dressed,  and  speaking  so  fondly  to  him — to  him — 
for  she  had  refused  to  see  him  ever  since  she  took  the 
pledge. ,  Now,  she  came  forward,  took  him  by  the  hand, 
ragged  and  dirty  as  he  was — she  knew  what  would  clean 
him — led  him  to  a  seat  and  sat  down  by  his  side.  Maggie 
sat  on  the  other.  For  a  minute  the  speaker  could  not  go  on. 
There  was  a  choking  in  his  throat,  strong  man  as  he  was,  and 
there  were  many  tears  in  the  eyes  that  looked  upon  that 
father,  mother,  and  daughter,  that  night. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN  .  NEW    YORK.  69 

"  Jim  Reagan,"  said  the  speaker,  "I  am  glad  to  see  you  here* 
You  are  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine." 

Jim  Reagan  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  Could  that 
well  dressed  laboring  man,  clean  shaved  and  clean  shirted,  be 
Tom  Nolan  ? 

u  I  don't  wonder  that  you  look  inquiringly  at  me,  as  much 
as  to  say,  'is  that  you?'  Yes,  it  is  me,  Tom  Nolan,  the 
mason,  me  who  used  to  lay  around  the  dirty  rum  holes  with 
you,  begging,  lying,  stealing,  to  get  a  drink.  Do  you  think 
that  now  I  would  pick  up  old  cigar  stumps  and  quids  of 
tobacco,  to  fill  my  pipe  ?  Do  you  think  I  would  wear  a  hatf 
as  I  have  done,  that  my  poor  beggared  boy  picked  out  of  the 
street  ?  Look  at  that.  Does  that  look  like  the  old  battered 
thing  I  used  to  wear  ?  Do  these  clothes  look  like  the  dirty 
rags  I  wore  when  you  and  I  slept  in  Gale  Jones's  coal-box  ? 
Do  I  look  like  the  drunken  Tom  Nolan  that  kept  a  family  of 
starving  beggars,  with  two  other  families,  in  one  room,  ten  by 
twelve  feet  square ;  and  that  a  garret  room,  without  fireplace, 
without  glass  in  its  one  window ;  with  the  roof  so  low  that  I 
could  only  stand  up  straight  in  one  corner ;  and  that  mean 
room  in  the  vilest  locality  on  earth,  jn  a  house — ah !  whole 
row  of  houses,  tenanted  by  just  such  miserable,  rum-beggared 
human  beings — buildings  owned  by  a  human  monster — 
houses  for  the  poor  which  are  enough  to  sicken  the  vilest  of 
beasts ;  such  as  no  good  man  would  let  for  tenements,  even 
when  he  could  get  tenants  as  degraded  as  I  was — tenements 
that  any  Christian  grand  jury  would  indict,  and  any  court, 
vrhich  desired  to  protect  the  lives  of  the  people,  would  compel 


70  HOT     CORN. 

the  owners  to  pull  down,  as  the  worst,  with  one  exception,  of 
all  city  nuisances. 

"  How  did  I  live  there  ?  How  did  my  wife  and  children 
ever  live  there,  in  that  little  miserable  room,  with  seven 
others,  just  such  wretches  as  ourselves?  How  do  hundreds 
of  such  men,  women,  and  children  as  we  were,  still  live  there  ? 
I  was  in  that  same  room — the  place  my  children  used  to  call 
home — this  evening.  The  entrance  is  in  Cow  Bay.  If  you 
would  like  to  see  it,  saturate  your  handkerchief  with  camphor, 
so  that  you  can  endure  the  horrid  stench,  and  enter.  Grope 
•your  way  through  the  long,  dark,  narrow  passage — turn  to 
your  right,  up  the  dark  and  dangerous  stairway ;  be  careful 
where  you  place  your  foot  around  the  lower  step,  or  in  the 
corners  of  the  broad  stairs,  for  it  is  more  than  shoe-mouth 
deep  of  steaming  filth.  Be  careful  too,  or  you  may  meet 
some  one — perhaps  a  man,  perhaps  a  woman — as  nature 
divides  the  sexes  ;  as  the  rum  seller  combines  them,  both 
beasts,  who  in  their  drunken  frenzy  may  thrust  you,  for  the 
very  hatred  of  your  better  clothes,  or  the  fear  that  you  have 
come  to  rescue  them  from  their  crazy  loved  dens  of  death, 
down,  headlong  down,-those  filthy  stairs.  Up,  up,  winding 
up,  five  stories  high,  now  you  are  under  the  black  smoky  roof; 
turn  to  the  left — take  care  and  not  upset  that  seething  pot  of 
butcher's  offal  soup,  that  is  cooking  upon  a  little  furnace  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs — open  that  door — go  in,  if  you  can  get 
in.  Look ;  here  is  a  negro  and  his  wife  sitting  upon  the  floor — 
where  else  could  they  sit,  for  there  is  no  chair — eating  their 
supper  off  of  the  bottom  of  a  pail.  A  broken  brown  earthen 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  «        71 

jug  holds  water — perhaps  not  all  water.  Another  negro  and 
his  wife  occupy  another  corner ;  a  third  sits  in  the  window 
monopolising  all  the  air  astir.  In  anpther  corner,  what  do 
we  see  ? 

A  'negro  man,  and  a  stout,  hearty,  rather  good  looking, 
young  white  woman." 

"  Not  sleeping  together  ?" 

"  No,  not  exactly  that — there  is  no  bed  in  the  room — no 
chair — no  table — no  nothing — but  rags,  and  dirt,  and  vermin, 
and  degraded,  rum  degraded,  human  beings — men  and  women 
with  just  such  souls  as  animate  the  highest  and  proudest  in 
the  land." 

"Who  is  this  man?" 

"  Dat  am  Ring-nosed  Bill." 

"  Is  that  his  wife  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that.     He  calls  her  his  woman." 

"And  she  lives  with  him  as  his  wife — you  all  live  here 
together  in  this  room  ?" 

"  Well,  we  is  got  nowhere  else  to  live.  Poor  folks  can't 
lib  as  rich  ones  do — hab  to  pay  rent — pretty  hard  to  do  that 
alone." 

"  How  much  rent  for  this  room  ?" 

"  Seventy-five  cents  a  week,  ebry  time  in  advance." 

"  Who  is  this  man  ?" 

"  They  calls  me  Snaky  Jo.  'Spose  may  be  my  name  is  Jo 
Snaky.  Don't  know  rightly." 

"  What  do  you  do  for  a  living  ?" 

"  Well,  mighty  hard  to  tell  dat,  dat  am  fact,  massa.    Picks 


72  HOT     CORN. 

up  a  job  now  and  then.  Mighty  hard  times  though — give 
poor  man  a  lift,  massa." 

"  Is  that  man  and  woman  drunk." 

"  Wiell,  'spose  am,  little  tossicated." 

"  A  little  intoxicated  !  They  are  dead  drunk,  lying  perfectly 
unconscious,  in  each  other's  emesis,  upon  the  bare  floor.  The 
atmosphere  of  this  room  is  enough  to  breed  contagion,  and 
sicken  the  whole  neighborhood,  and  would,  but  that  the 
whole  neighborhood  is  equally  bad.  Let  us  hasten  down  to 
the  open  air  of  the  court — it  is  but  little  better — all  pollution 
—all  that  breathe  it,  polluted.  Yet,  in  that  gate  of  death! 
once  lived.  Look  at  me,  James,  you  knew  me  then.  Look 
at  me  now,  you  don't  know  me.  You  knew  me  a  beast — 
you  may  know  me  a  man — you  may  know  yourself  one. 
Sign  this  paper — there  is  a  power  of  magic  in  it — and  you 
shall  go  home  with  me,  and  see  where  I  live  now,  and  I  will 
clothe  you  and  help  to  sustain  you  in  your  sober  life,  just  as 
Thomas  Elting  did  me,  and  with  heaven's  blessing,  we  will 
make  a  man  of  you." 

"  Too  late !  too  late !  not  enough  of  the  old  frame  left  to 
rebuild." 

"  It  is  never  too  late.  Look  at  the  piles  of  old  brick,  and 
tiles,  and  boards,  and  joist,  and  rafters,  and  doors,  and  glass, 
of  the  pulled  down  houses.  Are  they  wasted?  I  am  a 
mason,  you  a  carpenter ;  if  we  cannot  put  them  back  and 
build  up  the  same  old-fashioned  edifice,  we  can  make  a  good, 
snug,  comfortable  house.  Come,  sign  the  contract,  and  let 
\i«  set  right  about  the  job." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  71 

"  Father,  come,  father  !" 

He  turned  and  spoke  a  few  low  words  to  his  wife,  to  which 
she  replied : 

"  Yes,  I  will.  Keep  the  pledge  one  month  and  I  will  go 
and  live  with  you,  die  with  you." 

"Then  try  it,  father,  come."  And  she  led  him  forward, 
just  as  she  had  done  her  mother.  You  have  seen,  shall  see, 
how  heaven  blessed  her  for  filial  piety. 

"  I  used  to  write.  'Tis  a  long  time  since  I  did.  Maggie, 
my  hand  trembles.  Help  me — guide  the  pen.  I  cannot  see 
clearly." 

No  wonder.  There  was  a  tear  in  each  eye.  There  were 
other  tears  when  Maggie  took  him  again  by  the  hand,  and 
again  said : 

"  Come,  father,  let  us  pray ;"  and  then  all  kneeled  down 
together,  and  then  Mr.  Nolan  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  said, 
"  Come,  James,  let  us  go  home." 

Not  yet.  He  had  one  more  act  to  perform.  He  shook  his 
wife's  hand,  and  said,  "  Good  bye.  I  shall  keep  it."  Then 
he  looked  wishfully  at  Maggie,  as  though  he  wanted  some 
thing,  yet  dare  not  ask  it,  for  fear  he  should  be  repulsed. 
Still  the  yearning  of  nature  was  upon  him.  It  was  a  long 
time  since  he  had  felt  it  as  he  now  felt,  but  he  was  beginning 
to  be  a  new  man.  Maggie  was  his  only  child,  his  once  loved, 
much  caressed  child.  Would  she  ever  cling  those  arias 
around  his  neck  again.  She  had  shown  herself  this  night 
one  of  the  blessed  of  this  earth.  She  had  done,  or  induced 
him  to  do,  what  no  other  soul  on  earth  could  have  done,  and 

4 


7  I  HOT    CORN. 

how  his  heart  did  yearn  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms.  He  stoppe 
half  way  to  the  door,  and  looked  upon  her  with  tearful, 
loving,  thankful  eyes.  It  needs  no  wires,  no  magnet,  no 
human  contrivance,  to  convey  the  magnetism  of  the  heart. 
She  felt  its  power,  as  it  sprung  from  the  lightning  flash  of 
loving  eyes,  and  quick  as  that  flash,  she  made  one  bound,  one 
word,  "  Father !"  and  her  arms  were  around  his  neck,  her  lips 
to  his,  and  here  let  us  shift  the  scene. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  75 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    TEMPTATION. THE    FALL. 

Eve  was  tempted  of  Satan,  and  fell. 
So  have  been  her  children. 

ABOUT  two  months  after  the  events  of  the  last  chapter,  a 
few  of  the  new  friends  of  James  Reagan  joined  together,  pro 
cured  a  comfortable  room  in  Mulberry  street,  and  put  in  the 
necessary  articles  of  furniture,  and  his  wife,  faithful  to  her 
promise,  came  to  live  with  him.  There  was  a  great  contrast 
between  this  and  the  home  where  we  visited  him  in  Centre 
street.  Nolan  and  Elting  stuck  to  him,  and  he  stuck  to  the 
pledge.  Margaret  watched  him,  visited  him,  went  with  him 
and  her  mother  to  church  and  temperance  meetings,  and, 
finally,  became  satisfied  and  happy  that  her  father  had  made 
a  complete  reformation,  and  that  he  had  outlived  all  danger 
of  relapse ;  so  she  accepted  a  good  oner  to  go  into  the  country, 
and  live  in  a  farmer's  house,  where  she  would  learn  house 
work.  It  was  her  fortune,  but  his  misfortune,  thus  to  be 
separated.  She  was  his  ever-watchful  guardian  angel.  His 
wife  was  affectionately  kind,  and  they  lived  together,  as  of  old, 
happily.  And  so,  as  of  Adam  and  Eve  in  paradise,  they 
might  have  lived,  if  there  had  been  no  serpents  in  New  York. 
They  beset  him — waylaid  him — tempted  him — but  no  art 
could  induce  him  to  enter  their  sulphurous  dens.  Gale  Jones 


V6  HOT     CORN. 

B wore  that  he  would  get  him  back  ;  that  he  would  have  him 
among  his  old  cronies  again,  or  die  in  the  attempt. 

"  Them  ere  cold  water  chaps  aren't  a  going  to  crow  over 
me  that  ere  way,  no  how.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  boys,  you 
must  contrive  some  way  to  get  Jim  in  here  some  night ;  he 
has  got  money  now,  and  if  he  won't  drink  himself,  he  shall 
stand  treat  any  how.  We've  treated  him  many  a  time." 

"  Dat  am  de  fac,"  says  Ring-nosed  Bill. 

"  Shut  your  clapper,  you  drunken  nigger,  you ;  who  axt 
you  to  put  in  your  oar.  If  you  want  to  do  anything,  just  get 
Jim  Reagan,  by  hook  or  crook,  in  here  once  more." 

"  And  you  will  give  him  what  you  did  Pedlar  Jake." 

"  Shut  pan,  or  I'll  chuck  your  ivory  into  your  bread-basket. 
What's  in  your  wool,  Snakey  ?" 

"  Dis  nigger  knows  how  to  fix  him.  Make  him  come  his 
self." 

"  Let  her  rip,  Snakey  ;  how'll  you  do  it  ?" 

"Jis  go  to  work  at  right  end  foremost.  'Spose  you  the 
debble  stick  him  forked  tongue  right  out  all  at  once  to  frighten 
Fader  Adam  ?  No,  sir-ee ;  he  creep  round  mighty  sly,  and 
wiggle  him  tail  at  Mudder  Eve,  and  den  she  come  it  over  de 
old  man.  Dat  am  the  way.  Aren't  you  got  no  gumption  ?" 

"  I  understand.     Who  shall  the  Eve  be,  Snakey  ?" 

"  Smoky  Sal.     She  is  a  pet  of  his.     He  got  her  in." 

"I  know  it.  She  is  in  that  old  missionary's  claws. 
How  are  you  going  to  get  her  out  ?" 

"  Dat  easy  'nuff,  so  you  work  him  right.  Gib  us  a  drink, 
Cab.  I  isn't  going  to  grab  for  you  for  nothing." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  77 

"  I'll  give  you  a  gallon  if  you  bring  him  in.  How  '11  you 
do  it  ?' 

"Do  you  think  this  nigger  am  a  fool,  sure?  'Spose  I 
gwine  to  tell  you,  and  lose  the  gallon.  Take  notice,  King- 
nose,  it's  a  fair  trade.  So  jis  you  git  ready  to-morrow  night 
for  business,  case  he'll  be  down  then." 

The  next  night  the  trap  was  set.  Snakey  went  to  One- 
eyed  Angeline,  and  promised  her  a  share  in  the  gallon,  if  she 
would  contrive  a  plan  to  get  Smoky  Sal  out  of  the  House  of 
Industry,  and  get  her  over  to  Gale  Jones's,  and  get  her  drunk. 

These  two  had  long  been  sisters  in  sin.  One  had  reformed, 
or  was  trying  to  reform,  for  Reagan  had  got  her  into  the 
House,  and  seemed  very  anxious  for  her,  having,  as  he  said, 
been  the  cause  of  her  downfall.  The  other  hated  her  for  her 
reformation,  and  would  drag  her  back,  down,  down,  to  the 
wretched  life  she  had  escaped  from. 

So  she  sent  word  to  Sally  that  she  was  sick  and  almost 
dying,  and  begged  her  to  come  and  see  her.  How  could  she 
refuse  ?  So  she  went,  and  found  her  with  her  head  tied  up, 
and  in  dreadful  pain.  Directly  in  came  Snakey  Jo,  with  the 
first  installment  of  the  gallon.  It  was  to  bathe  her  head. 
Can  an  old  inebriate  put  liquor  upon  the  outside  of  the  head 
without  putting  it  in?  Sally  could  not.  She  smelt — she 
tasted — she  drank — was  drunk — and  then  Angeline  took  hei 
down  to  Gale  Jones's  grocery,  and  into  his  back  room,  and 
then  that  black  imp  of  a  worse  than  slave's  master,  watched 
for  Reagan  as  he  started  for  home,  and  with  an  air  of  honesty 
that  might  deceive  the  wariest  old  fox  into  a  trap,  he  told 


78  HOT     CORN. 

him  how  "  Angeline  had  coaxed  Sally  into  the  grocery,  and 
he  had  been  watching  an  hour" — that  was  the  only  truth  he 
spoke — he  watched  for  another  victim — "and  she  hadn't 
come  out  yet,  and  he  was  afraid  she  was  in  trouble ;  and  now, 
Mister  Reagan,  I  is  so  glad  I  is  fell  in  wid  you,  accidental 
like,  case  I  didn't  know  as  you  was  in  the  Points,  case  you 
can  get  her  out,  and  get  her  back  home." 

With  a  natural  impulse  to  do  good,  he  determined,  impru 
dently,  to  be  sure,  to  do  what  he  had  not  done  since  he  signed 
the  pledge — to  enter  a  rum-hole.  There  he  found  the  two 
women  as  the  negro  had  told  him.  Sally  was  completely 
overcome,  and  lying  in  one  corner  of  "the  back  room." 
Back  it  was,  quite  out  of  sight  or  hearing  of  the  street,  where 
many  a  victim  had  been  robbed  at  a  game  of  cards,  or  by 
more  direct  means.  It  was  in  this  room  that  Pedlar  Jake 
got  his  quietus. 

"  I  had  been  in  the  room  often  before,"  said  Reagan.  "  I 
knew  the  way,  and  I  paid  no  heed  to  the  hypocritically  angry 
words  I  was  greeted  with  as  I  entered,  and  told  to  clear  out 
and  mind  my  own  business.  I  pushed  my  way  through  the 
crowd  of  loafers,  and  entered  the  door  of  death.  That  old 
witch,  Angeline,  took  care  to  get  out  of  my  way  as  I  went  in. 
I  sat  down  upon  the  bed  and  tried  to  rouse  up  the  victim  of 
this  infernal  plot,  little  thinking  that  I  was  the  greatest  one 
of  the  two.  The  room  was  very  close  and  foul,  and  as  I  had 
been  unused,  lately,  to  breathe  such  air,  it  made  me  sick. 
'  Tom,'  said  I " — let  me  stop  and  moralize  a  little  upon  this 
name.  I  would  never  call  a  child,  Tom.  There  is  some- 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  79 

thing  fatal  in  the  word.  I  have  known  more  drunken  Toms 
than  of  all  other  names.  It  -is  a  low-bred  name.  Bill,  Jiin,  Joe, 
Sam,  Ike,  are  all  bad,  but  none  equal  to  Tom.  "  Two  of  my 
drunkenest  companions,"  said  Reagan,  "  afterwards,  my  best 
friends,  were  Toms — now  Thomas  Elting  and  Thomas 
Nolan."  Parents,  don't  nickname  your  children,  it  is  a  step 
down  that  may  carry  them  to  the  bottom  of  the  ladder. 

Give  your  children  good  names ;  names  they  will  not  be 
ashamed  of  in  after  fife,  and  never  cut  them  short.  Never 
call,  William,  Bill ;  or,  Catherine,  Kate  ;  or,  Mary,  that  most 
beautiful  of  all  names,  a  name  I  love,  Moll ;  it  will,  perhaps, 
be  the  direct  cause  of  their  ruin  as  they  grow  up.  Who 
would  think  of  speaking  a  foul  word  to  Miss  Mary  Dudley  ? 
Who  would  speak  with  respect  to  Moll  Dud  ?  Parents,  think 
of  it. 

Now,  here  was  another  Tom.  A  bright,  active  boy — Tom 
Top,  whose  proper  name  was,  Thomas  Topham.  What  if  he 
had  been  called  Charles  ?  why,  his  nickname  would  have  been 
an  elongation  to  Charley,  a  name  that  everybody  loves.  At 
any  rate,  he  would  not  have  been,  drunken  Tom — a  poor, 
neglected  orphan  boy,  who,  for  want  of  some  one  to  guide 
and  keep  him  in  the  path  of  virtue,  had  strayed  into  the 
very  worst  of  all  paths  of  vice.  From  a  home,  where  he 
received  a  fair  education,  and  had  a  good  mother,  but  a 
father  who  learned  him  to  drink,  and  who  thought  it  cunning 
to  call  him,  Tom  Top,  he  was  come  down  to  be  a  mere 
hanger-on  around  Cale  Jones's  grocery. 

"  God  never  works  without  an  object,"  is  an  axiom  of  those 


80  HOT     CORN. 

who  look  every  day  to  him  for  counsel.  We  shall  see  in 
time  how  the  villain  was  defeated  in  his  object  of  bringing 
Reagan  into  this  place,  and  making  use  of  Tom  for  an  instru 
ment  of  his  ruin. 

" '  Tom,'  said  I,  '  bring  me  a  glass  of  water/  He  did  so,  I 
tasted  it  and  set  it  down  a  moment  for  the  ice  to  melt.  When 
I  took  it  up  again,  I  swallowed  the  whole  tumbler  full  at  a 
gulph.  In  a  moment  my  throat,  my  stomach,  nry  brain  were 
on  fire.  I  had  drank  half-a-pint  of  white  whiskey.  Those 
wicked  wretches  had  hired  Tom  to  substitute  one  glass  for 
the  other.  What  transpired  for  three  days  after,  I  know  not." 

The  next  morning,  before  sunrise,  his  wife  came  down  to 
the  Points  in  an  agony  of  fear.  "  Was  Reagan  there  ?"  was 
her  hopeful  inquiry.  Hope  sunk  and  almost  carried  her  with 
it  when  told  that  he  left  there  before  ten  to  go  home.  ''Then 
he  is  lost,  lost,  lost !" 

All  that  day  he  was  searched  for  up  and  down,  high  and 
low,  but  nobody  had  seen  him.  How  the  villains  lied,  for 
they  were  all  the  time  gloating  over  their  victory — double 
victory — two  stray  sheep  won  back — back  to  the  wolfs  den. 
All  that  day  the  pack  were  carousing  upon  the  money  robbed 
from  Reagan. 

"  What  a  glorious  haul,  boys,"  says  Gale  Jones,  "we  must 
have  Tom  Elting  and  Nolan,  next,  and  then  hurrah,  boys, 
we'll  break  up  old  Pease  and  drive  him  out  of  the  Points  yet." 

How  could  human  nature  become  so  infernally  depraved, 
as  to  rejoice  over  and  glorify  such  deeds  of  darkness  ? 

By  Rum.     The  very  parent  of  total  depravity. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  81 

At  night,  after  their  day's  work,  Elting  and  Nolan  came 
down  and  joined  the  search,  looking  into  every  hole  that  was 
most  likely  to  have  been  used  for  his  tomb,  worse  than  tomb, 
for  it  was  the  burial-place  of  his  soul.  They  did  not  look  in 
Oale  Jones's  back  room,  for  he  "  took  his  Bible  oath  that  Jiin 
Reagan  had  never  entered  his  door  in  a  three  month." 

Finally,  after  the  pack  had  spent  every  cent  of  his  money, 
and  pawned  every  article  of  his  clothing,  they  were  ready  to 
get  rid  of  his  company.  But  they  were  not  quite  satisfied 
with  the  misery  they  had  made  for  his  wife,  and  so  they  plot 
ted  a  scheme  so  wicked  that  the  most  incarnate  one  of  all  the 
hosts  of  the  infernal  regions  would  blush  to  own  the  deed. 

They  knew  that  Sally  had  been  a  source  of  disturbance,  a 
cause  of  jealousy  to  his  wife  in  by-gone  years,  and  so  they 
laid  their  plan.  Madalina,  a  little  beggar  girl,  an  Italian  rag 
picker's  daughter,  was  promised  a  sixpence  to  go,  as  she  would 
not  be  suspected,  to  tell  Mrs.  Reagan,  that  Tom  knew  where 
her  husband  was. 

It  was  a  faint  hope,  but  drowning  men  catch  at  straws. 

Tom  was  hunted  up.  He  was  easily  found,  for  he  had  his 
instructions,  "  to  bring  the  old  woman  along."  Did  they  hope 
in  her  frenzy  of  despair  and  jealousy  that  she  too  would  fall  ? 
Yes  they  did. 

Could  human  ingenuity  contrive  anything  more  harrowing 
to  the  mind  of  a  wife,  searching  for  her  absent  husband,  than 
an  introduction  into  a  room  where  he  was  in  bed  with  another 
woman,  folding  her,  in  his  drunken  insanity,  in  his  arms, 

4* 


82  HOT     CORN. 

protesting  how  he  loved  her,  loved  her  better  than  he  did— 
better  than — his  grog  ? 

The  monsters  missed  their  aim.  Mrs.  Reagan  spoke  kindly 
to  him  as  though  in  her  own  bed  ;  begged  him  to  get  up  and 
go  home  with  her.  No  he  would  not.  She  might  go  back 

to  her  old  missionary  paramour.  She  might  go  to no 

matter  where,  he  was  drunk.  But  he  could  not  get  up,  for 
the  villains  had  stripped  him  of  every  stitch  of  clothing ;  they 
had  not  even  left  him  a  shirt.  So  she  went  away,  sorrowing. 

"  Tom,"  said  she,  "  come,  go  home  with  me,  that  is  a  good 
boy,  I  feel  so. faint  and  weak."  Tom  was  a  gopd  boy;  who 
had  ever  said  it  though  ?  One,  one  he  remembered,  and  these 
words  came  like  hers  and  nestled  down  in  his  heart.  They 
will  live  there  and  drive  out  evil  ones. 

Tom  went  home  with  her,  giving  her  his  arm  and  telling 
her  to  lean  upon  it.  Tom  was  not  the  best  of  guides,  he 
made  several  missteps  that  day,  for  tears  dimmed  his  eyes, 
but  he  made  one  good  step,  it  was  up  the  ladder  of  reform. 

"  Mrs.  Reagan,"  said  he,  "  let  me  stay  here  to-day,  I  have  got 
no  home,  and  I  don't  feel  as  though  I  wanted  to  go  back  to 
Gale  Jones's." 

No.  He  did  not  want  to  go  back  there.  He  had  heard 
the  sound  of  his  dead  mother's  voice,  saying,  good  boy.  No 
body  would  say,  good  boy,  if  he  went  back  there.  Conscience 
too  \ras  doing  her  work;  conscience  told  him  what  he  had 
done  to  a  woman  who  now  said,  "  good  boy." 

So  he  stayed — he  was  a  good  boy — she  was  sick  and  he 
waited  upon  her  all  day.  At  night  he  was  going  to  get  Mr. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  83 

Elting  and  Nolan  to  go  witL  him  and  bring  Reagan  home. 
That  would  be  his  reward.  He  has  his  hand  upon  the  door 
to  go  out,  but  waits  a  moment  to  see  who  comes.  He  opena 
it  to  a  hurried  footstep,  and  in  bounds  Wild  Maggie,  her  face 
radiant  with  health,  strength,  and  the  lovely  bloom  of  country 
life. 

"  Where's  father  ?     Mother  sick  ?     What's  the  matter  2" 

Her  mother  draws  the  clothes  over  her  face.  She  would 
not  have  her  daughter  see  her  weep. 

"  Tom,  my  boy,  tell  me ;  come,  Tom,  that  is  a  good  boy — 
the  truth,  nothing  but  the  truth — I  must  know  it." 

Good  boy,  again,  and  his  heart  overflowed.  He  could  stand 
kicks,  and  cuffs,  and  curses,  without  a  tear,  but  he  could  not 
hold  out  against,  "  good  boy." 

"  Maggie,  I  will  not  lie  to  you,  I  could  not ;  but  I  can't  tell 
you  the  truth." 

"Why  r 

"  I  am  'fraid  you  won't  call  me  good  boy  again." 

"  Yes,  I  will.     I  don't  believe  you  are  a  bad  one." 

"  And  you  won't  hate  me  ?" 

"  No,  no ;  she  cannot  hate  you,  for  you  have  been  good  to 
her  mother,  to-day." 

"  Mother !  Oh !  I  know  all  about  it.  You  need  not  tell 
me.  Only,  where  is  he  ?  I  will  go  and  bring  him  home." 

"  Did  Heaven  ever  give  a  mother  such  another  child  ?" 

Yes,  many  such.  Many  a  flower  would  send  its  blossomed 
sweets  to  many  a  heart,  but  for  blighting  frosts  in  its  young 
years. 


84  HOT     CORN. 

"  What  sent  you  home,  Maggie  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  mother ;  I  felt  as  though  I  was  wanted 
Something  told  me  so.  I  dreamed  so  for  three  nights,  and  so 
I  came." 

She  was  soon  told  everything.  Tom  made  a  full  confess 
ion  ;  and  still  she  did  not  hate  him.  She  told  him,  how  he 
could  help  her.  He  should  go  with  her ;  she  was  going  to 
bring  her  father  home.  She  gave  him  a  little  bundle  of 
clothes  to  carry  ;  and  away  they  went.  She  stopped  on  her 
way  down,  at  the  police  office,  made  her  complaint,  and  took 
an  officer  along  with  her,  who  arrested  Gale  Jones  and  the  two 
women ;  the  rest  of  the  gang  were  prowling  for  prey  some 
where  else.  The  women  were  sent  to  the  Island,  next  day, 
for  they  had  no  friends.  The  plotter  of  villainy  had.  The 
Alderman  of  the  Sixth  Ward,  was  his  friend ;  political  friend  ; 
him  he  sent  for ;  and  after  being  an  hour  in  custody,  he  was 
discharged ;  and  this  was  the  end  of  his  punishment. 

Reagan,  since  his  wife's  visit  in  the  morning,  had  steadily 
refused  to  drink  any  more,  and  had  become  in  a  measure  sober. 
It  was  a  sad  meeting  with  his  daughter.  At  first,  he  refused 
to  see  or  speak  to  her.  He  was  ashamed.  Nature  overcame 
him  at  last,  and  he  got  up  and  pulled  off  the  dirty  suit  his 
robbers  had  put  on  him,  preparatory  to  kicking  him  into  the 
street,  and  put  on  the  clean  ones,  which  Maggie  and  Tom  had 
brought  him  ;  and  then  they  took  him,  each  by  an  arm,  and 
went  home.  It  was  a  sad  home  ;  it  never  will  be  a  happy  one 
again.  Then  she  went  to  work  and  got  him  some  supper, 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  85 

spending  of  her  own  little  store  to  buy  some  tea,  and  such 
things  as  he  could  eat. 

"  Now,"  says  she,  "  I  have  got  another  thing  to  do  to-night, 
for  I  must  go  back  again  in  the  morning.  Tom,  I  am  goin£ 
to  provide  you  with  a  home.  You  must  go  to  the  House  of 
Industry,  reform,  and  make  a  man  of  yourself." 

Reader,  do  not  forget.  This  ministering  angel,  is  Wild 
Maggie. 

Most  willingly  he  went  with  her,  and  was  most  kindly 
received  by  the  Superintendent.  There  we  will  leave  him 
awhile.  We  shall  see  him  again  perhaps. 

Maggie  went  back  to  her  country  home.  Her  father 
remained  sick  for  some  days,  and  then  went  to  work,  but  his 
spirit  was  broken,  he  grew  more  and  more  uneasy,  and  finally, 
in  a  fit  of  despondency,  met  with  one  of  his  old  cronies,  and 
back  he  went,  down,  down,  to  his  former  degradation.  Had 
he  gone  back  and  renewed  his  pledge,  after  his  first  fall,  when 
he  was  dragged  down,  he  might  have  been  saved ;  but  he 
would  not ;  he  said,  he  had  proved  himself  incapable  of  ever 
being  a  man  again,  and  so  he  sunk  in  despair.  Week  after 
week  his  clothes,  his  furniture,  his  wife's  clothes,  even  her 
daughter's  gift-Bible,  went  for  rum.  Nothing  was  left,  but 
starvation.  Yes,  there  was  one  thing  left  for  her — one  thing 
that  that  wife  had  never  before  received  from  her  hus 
band. 

A.  blow,  a  black-eye,  and  a  kick.  It  was  one  drop  toe 
much  in  her  cup  of  affliction,  and  she  parted  with  him  for 
ever,  and  came  back  to  her  old  home,  the  House  of  Industry. 


86  HOT     CORN. 

Tom  welcomed  her  with  a  smile;  he  was  door-keeper 
now. 

" '  It  is  better  to  be  door-keeper,' "  said  he,  " '  in  the  house — 
you  know  the  rest.  I  will  call  Mr.  P.  I  am  sure,  he  will  give 
you  a  home,  he  said  as  much  yesterday.  I  shall  write  to 
Maggie  now,  and  let  her  know  all  about  it." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Tom,  to  say  that." 

"Well,  wasn't  she  kind  to  me?  Where  should  I  have 
been  all  this  time,  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  ?  I  think,  we 
will  get  the  old  man  in  again,  yet." 

"  No,  no,  he  is  passed  everything,  now.  He  never  was  so 
bad  before,  never  struck  me  a  blow  before.  A  blow  from 
him  !  Oh  !  it  is  dreadful.  I  never  can  forgive  that." 

"Don't  say  that.  ' Forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive 
those  who  trespass  against  us.'  " 

"  True,  my  boy,  you  have  taught  me  a  lesson.  I  will  for 
give,  but  I  don't  think  he  will  ever  get  over  this  bout ;  he  is 
very  violent." 

"  The  most  violent  fires  are  soonest  burnt  out." 

Tom  had  faith,  she  had  none,  she  was  a  sad  victim  of  des 
pair — a  despairing  wife.  But  time  will  heal  the  deepest 
wounds.  She  went  to  work,  grew  cheerful,  and  contented 
there  to  spend  the  remainder  of  her  life,  which  she  said, 
tfould  not  be  long.  Of  that  she  seemed  to  have  a  present^ 
ment,  and  made  all  preparation  which  it  becomes  a  reason 
able  mortal  to  make  for  such  a  prospective  journey.  She 
seemed  to  have  but  one  wish. 

"  Oh !  if  I  could  see  my  husband  as  he  was  a  few  months 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  87 

ago,  I  should  be  willing  to  die  then.  But  I  cannot  bear  to 
die  now  with  the  tho\ght  upon  my  mind,  that  he  would 
never  shed  a  tear  at  my  grave." 

His  time  was  coming.  Tom  was  a  philosopher.  "  Didn't 
I  tell  you,"  says  he,  "  that  the  fire  would  soori  burn  out.  He 
was  here  last  night,  walking  up  and  down  the  pavement  for 
hours;  looking  down  into  the  kitchen  when  you  were  at 
work." 

"  Perhaps  he  wanted  to  strike  me  again." 

"  No,  he  was  as  sober  as  a  judge." 

"  Oh,  dear !  then  may  be  he  was  hungry,  poor  man." 

"  So  I  thought,  and  went  and  bought  him  a  loaf  of  bread. 
When  I  gave  it  to  him,  he  burst  into  tears,  and  walked  away 
to  a  cart  and  sat  down  to  eat  it.  He  was  hungry,  and  for 
fear  he  would  be  dry,  and  go  to  that  cursed  hole — " 

"  Don't  swear,  Tom." 

"  I  can't  help  it ;  it  is  one,  and  why  not  call  it  so  ?  I  did 
not  want  him  to  go  there,  and  so  I  went  and  got  him  a  cup 
of  water,  and  carried  to  him,  and  then  I  thought  if  every 
body  knew  what  a  blessed  thing  it  is  to  give  these  poor  old 
drunkards  bread  and  water  instead  of  rum,  how  much 
happiness  they  might  make  in  the  world.  And  then  I  talked 
to  him  about  taking  the  pledge  again,  but  he  said,  '  no,  Tom, 
I  took  it  once,  I  don't  want  to  break  it  again.'  '  No,'  said  I, 
*  you  did  not  break  it,  it  was  me  that  did  it,  I  was  the  guilty 
one.'  And  then  I  told  him  all  about  it.  He  never  knew 
before.  The  rascals  there  told  him,  that  he  and  Sally 


88  HOT     CORN. 

came  there  together  and  called  for  whiskey,  and  then  got 
drunk  and  went  to  bed  together,  and  he  believed  it ;  his  mind 
was  so  confused  that  he  forgot  all  about  the  past,  and  he  never 
knew  till  now  that  they  had  lied  to  him  so  shockingly.  'You 
don't  know,'  says  he,  '  Tom,  what  a  load  you  have  lifted  off 
of  my  conscience.'  Then  I  asked  him  where  he  was  going 
to  sleep  that  night  ? 

" '  Where  ?  where  should  I  ?  In  the  cart  or  under  it.  Any 
where  I  can  find  a  hole.  Me  that  have  had  a  house  of  my 
own,  and  built  a  score  of  houses  for  others  to  sleep  in,  have 
not  slept  in  one  these  two  months.  Perhaps  never  shall 
again.' 

"  *  Yes  you  will,'  says  I ;  *  you  will  sleep  in  that  one  to 
night.' 

" 4  What !  under  the  same  roof  with  my  wife  once  more ;  I 
don't  know  as  I  could  stand  it ;  it  is  more  happiness  than  I 
deserve.' 

"  *  No,  it  is  not ;  and  if  you  will  go  away  in  the  morning, 
and  stay  away  all  day,  and  come  back  at  night  as  sober  as 
you  are  now,  I  will  ask  the  Superintendent  to  take  you  in  for 
good.' 

"  *  I  will,  I  will !  I  will  go  away  and  sweep  the  streets  to 
morrow  ;  they  will  give  me  another  loaf  of  bread,  and  that  ia 
more  than  I  have  had  for  a  whole  week.' 

"  So  you  see,  he  will  come  again  to-night,  and  then  it  is 
temperance  meeting,  and  we  will  get  him  in.  Depend  upon 
it,  if  he  ever  takes  the  pledge  again  he  will  never  break  it." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  89 

True  to  his  word,  Reagan  came  the  next  night  sober. 

"  See,"  said  he,  "  Tom,  I  have  got  a  quarter  of  a  dollar,  and 
have  not  spent  it  for  liquor.  If  some  of  the  harpies  knew  I 
had  it,  how  they  would  be  after  me." 

He  hesitated  long  about  going  into  the  meeting.  He  was 
afraid  his  wife  would  be  there,  and  he  could  not  bear  to  meet 
her.  She  was  equally  afraid  to  meet  him.  Finally,  one  of  the 
assistants  went  out  and  talked  with  him. 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  replied,  "  that  I  could  ever  be  a  man 
again  ?  I  am  afraid  there  is  not  enough  of  me  left  to  make 
one.  Manhood  is  all  gone.  I  feel  as  though  I  had  made  a 
beast  of  myself  so  long,  that  I  must  always  be  a  beast  But 
if  you  think  there  is  enough  left  of  the  old  wreck — " 

"  Enough  ?     Yes ;  come  along." 

This  was  a  new  voice,  just  come  up  on  the  other  side.  He 
looked  around ;  it  was  Nolan. 

"  Nolan,  my  old  friend — you  were  a  friend  to  me ;  and  1 
will  try  if  Mr.  Pease  will  agree  to  shut  me  up  and  keep  me 
out  of  the  way  of  these  alligators.  Look  at  them.  Don't  they 
lie  about  just  like  alligators  in  the  mud  and  swamps,  ready  to 
snap  up  every  poor  dog  that  comes  within  reach  of  their 
tails  or  jaws  ?" 

Well,  he  took  the  pledge,  and  in  due  time  we  will  see  how 
he»  kept  it. 

While  I  give  my  readers  a  little  respite  from  the  contem 
plation  of  such  characters  as  have  been  introduced  in  the 
preceding  chapters,  I  propose  to  introduce  a  little  episode  in 


90  HOT     CORN. 

the  life  of  two  of  those  which  they  have  seen  engaged  in  the 
noble  work  of  reclaiming  and  sustaining  a  poor  inebriate  in 
his  efforts  to  become  a  sober  man.  That  they  had  reason  to 
believe  in  the  possibility  of  such  reclamation,  the  reader  will 
understand  after  reading  the  historical  facts  of  the  next 
chapter. 


LIFE    SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  01 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    TWO    PENNY    MARRIAGE. 

*'  And  ye  twain  shall  be  one  flesh." 
"What  God  hath  joined  together,  let  no  man  put  asunder." 

No,  not  even  rum ;  yet  it  often  does.  We  have  just  read 
of  one  of  the  many  thousand  sad  instances  that  have  occurred 
in  this  world,  of  rum  separating  those  who  had  taken  upon 
them  that  holy  ordinance  which  makes  them  as  one  flesh,  one 
heart,  one  mind;  and,  unless  such  have  one  mind  both  to  be 
drunk  together,  how  ca.n  they  live  with  one  another  ?  How 
can  they  live  in  rum's  pollution  in  the  holy  bonds  of  matri 
mony  ?  There  is  nothing  holy  about  such  a  sinful  life. 

Do  away  with  the  cause — abolish  intoxicating  liquor  from 
society,  and  you  will'  not  only  rivet  those  holy  bonds  with 
go!4en  rivets,  but  you  will  shut  up  nine-tenths  of  the  brothels 
and  gaming  houses  in  this  city.  Without  rum  they  could 
not  live  over  the  first  quarter's  rent  day.  With  it  their  profits 
are  enormous — its  effects  awful. 

I  could  point  you  to  a  house  in  this  city,  with  its  twenty- 
five  painted  harlots,  where  the  sales  of  wine  in  one  year  have 
been  thirteen  thousand  bottles,  costing  $15,000,  and  selling 
for  $39,000.  And  why  not  a  profit,  since  men  and  women 
will  get  drunk  in  a  palace,  the  mere  repairs  or  additions 


y*  HOT     CORN. 

to  which,  in  one  season,  cost  the  almost  incredible  sum  of 
$70,000  ? 

Who  furnished  the  money  ?  Who  made  the  inmates  what 
they  are  ?  Those  who  made  the  wine  ;  not  those  who  furnished 
the  grape  juice,  for  it  is  probable  that  the  whole  did  not  con 
tain  a  thousand  bottles  full  of  that  liquor. 

What  caused  the  inmates  to  be  what  they  are  ?     Rum! 

Who  made  them  harlots  ?  Not  those  who  marry,  or  are 
given  in  marriage. 

Marriage  is  one  of  the  best  preventives  of  licentiousness, 
but  it  is  not  often  perhaps  that  it  produces  so  positive  a  refor 
mation  as  in  the  following  cases. 

"  I  have  married,"  said  Mr.  Pease  to  me  one  day,  "  some 
very  curious  couples.  That  of  Elting  was  very  remark 
able." 

He  was  sitting  one  evening,  trying  to  post  up  his  books, 
amid  continued  interruptions,  such  as,  "  Little  Lucy's  eyes  are 
worse  to-night,  sir." 

"  Let  me  see.  She  must  go  into  the  hospital.  Send  the 
sore-eye  nurse  to  me.  Take  this  little  girl  to  your  room — 
keep  her  eyes  well  washed  with  cold  water,  and  use  that 
ointment.  Report  to  me  to-morrow.  Go." 

"  That  is  a  fine-looking  woman." 

"  Yes,  and  an  excellent  nurse.  She  lived  last  year  in  one 
of  those  Centre  street  cellars.  She  came  here  with  both  eyes 
nearly  out  of  her  head ;  gouged  by  a  drunken  husband.  We 
put  her  into  the  sore  eye  hospital,  and  soon  found  she  would 
make  a  good  nurse  for  the  afflicted  children." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  93 

"  Mr.  Pease,  is  it  the  powder  once  and  the  pills  every  hour, 
or  is  it  t'other  way," 

"  Exactly.  The  other  way.  You  have  hit  it.  The  powde- 
is  Dover's  Powder,  to  allay  fever.  The  pills  are  cathartic. 
Go." 

"  Cathartic.  I  never  heard  of  that  pill-maker  before.  Won 
der  if  he  will  make  as  many  as  Brandreth  has,"  says  this 
interrupter  as  she  goes  away. 

"  Susan  Apsley  says  you  promised  her  she  might  go  out 
this  evening." 

"  Did  she  come  in  all  right  when  she  was  out  before  ?" 

"All  right,  sir." 

"  Let  her  go." 

"  Please,  sir,  may  I  go  with  her  ?" 

"  Who  is  this." 

"  Juliana,  sir.  I  want  to  go  and  see  my  cousin  Madalina, 
sir." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember.  You  are  the  little  Italian  tambou 
rine  girl.  Yes,  you  may  go.  See  if  you  can  get  that  pretty 
cousin  of  yours  to  come  and  live  here." 

"  She  would  like  to,  sir,  but  her  mother  won't  let  her." 

"Very  well.     Go." 

And  he  resumed  his  work.  "  7  and  5  are  12,  and  8  are 
20  ;  two  1's  are  2 — " 

"  Yes,  but  two  ones  want  to  be  made  one." 

"  How  is  that — what  do  you  want  ?" 

Reader,  will  you  just  turn  to  the  illustration  of  the  couple 
that  now  presented  themselves  as  candidates  for  matrimony. 


94  HOT     CORN. 

The  delineator  and  engraver  have  made  one  of  the  most  per 
fect  daguerreian  pictures  ever  got  up  from  description. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?" 

"  "We  want  to  be  married,  sir." 

"  Want  to  be  married — what  for  ?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  we  don't  think  it  is  right  for  us  to  be  living 
together  this  way  any  longer,  and  we  have  been  talking  over 
the  matter  to-day,  and  you  see " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  see  you  have  been  talking  over  the  matter  over 
the  bottle,  and  have  come  to  a  sort  of  drunken  conclusion  to 
get  married.  When  you  get  sober,  you  will  both  repent  it, 
probably." 

"  No,  sir,  we  are  not  very  drunk  now,  not  so  drunk  but 
what  we  can  think,  and  we  don't  think  we  are  doing  right — 
we  are  not  doing  as  we  were  brought  up  to  do  by  pious 
parents.  We  have  been  reading  about  the  good  things  you 
have  done  for  just  such  poor  outcasts  as  we  are,  and  we  want 
you  to  try  and  do  something  for  us." 

"  Read !     can  you  read  ?     Do  you  read  the  Bible  ?" 

"  Well,  not  much  lately,  but  we  read  the  newspapers,  and 
sometimes  we  read  something  good  in  them.  How  can  we 
read  the  Bible  when  we  are  drunk  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  getting  married  will  keep  you  from  getting 
drunk  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  we  are  going  to  1  ike  the  pledge  too,  and  we  shall 
keep  it,  depend  upon  that." 

"  Suppose  you  take  the  pie  Ige  and  try  that  first,  and  if  you 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  95 

can  keep  it  till  you  can  wash  some  of  the  dirt  away,  and  get 
Borne  clothes  on,  then  I  will  many  you." 

"  No ;  that  won't  do.  I  shall  get  to  thinking  what  a  poor, 
dirty,  miserable  wretch  I  am,  and  how  I  am  living  with  this 
woman,  who  is  not  a  bad  woman  by  nature ;  and  then  I  will 
drink,  and  then  she  will  drink — oh,  cursed  rum ! — and  what 
is  to  prevent  us  ?  But  if  we  were  married,  my  wife,  yes,  Mr. 
Pease,  my  wife,  would  say,  'Thomas' — she  would  not  say,  'Tom, 
you  dirty  brute,' — '  don't  be  tempted  ;'  and  who  knows  but 
we  might  be  somebody  yet — somebody  that  our  own  mothers 
would  not  be  ashamed  of?" 

Here  the  woman,  who  had  been  silent  and  rather  moody, 
burst  into  a  violent  flood  of  tears,  crying,  "  Mother,  mother,  I 
know  not  whether  she  is  alive  or  not,  and  dare  not  inquire  ; 
but  if  we  were  married  and  reformed,  I  would  make  her 
happy  once  more." 

"  I  could  no  longer  resist  the  appeal,"  said  Mr.  P.,  "  and 
determined  to  give  them  a  trial.  I  have  married  a  good 
many  poor,  wretched-looking  couples,  but  none  that  looked 
quite  so  much  so  as  this.  The  man  was  hatless  and  shoeless, 
without  coat  or  vest,  with  long  hair  and  beard  grimed  with  dirt. 
He  was  by  trade  a  bricklayer,  one  of  the  best  in  the  city.  The 
woman  wore  the  last  remains  of  a  silk  bonnet,  and  some 
thing  that  might  pass  for  shoes,  and  an  old,  very  old  dress, 
once  a  rich  merino,  apparently  without  any  under  garments." 

"  Your  name  is  Thomas — Thomas  what  ?" 

"  Eltlng,  sir.  Thomas  Elting,  a  good,  true  name  and  true 
man ;  that  is,  shall  be,  if  you  marry  us." 


90  HOT     CORK. 

"  Well,  well.     I  am  going  to  marry  you." 

"  Are  you  ?     There,  Mag,  I  told  you  so." 

"  Don't  call  me  Mag.  If  I  am  going  to  be  married,  it  shall 
be  by  my  right  name,  the  one  my  mother  gave  me  " 

"  Not  Mag  ?     Well,  I  never  knew  that." 

"Now,  Thomas,  hold  your  tongue,  you  talk  too  much. 
What  is  your  name  ?" 

"Matilda.  Must  I  tell  you  the  other?  Yes,  I  will,  and  I 
never  will  disgrace  it.  I  don't  think,  I  should  ever  have  been 
as  bad  if  I  had  kept  it.  That  bad  woman  who  first  tempted 
me  to  ruin,  made  me  take  a  false  name.  They  always  do  that, 
sir,  and  so  she  said  I  must  take  another  name,  I  did  not  know 
what  for  then  ;  and  so  they  called  me  Mag,  and  that  is  the 
name  he  knows  me  by,  and  I  never  would  have  told  him  my 
right  name,  only  that  we  are  going  to  get  married,  and 
reform." 

Could  they  do  it — could  beings  sunk  so  low,  reform  ?  We 
shall  see. 

"  It  is  a  bad  thing,  sir,  for  a  girl  to  give  up  her  name  unless 
for  that  of  a  good  husband.  Matilda  Morgan.  Nobody 
that  is  good  knows  me  by  any  other  name  in  this  bad  city." 
.  Yes,  it  is  a  bad  thing  for  a  girl  to  give  up  her  own  name 
for  a  fictitious  one.  I  could  tell  a  touching  story  of  an  instance 
of  a  poor  sewing  woman,  who  went  to  one  of  these  name- 
changing  houses  to  work,  not  to  sin,  who  was  coaxed  to  be 
called  Lucy,  instead  of  her  own  sweet  name  of  Athalia,  and 
how  she  was  accidentally  discovered  and  rescued  from  the 
very  jaws  of  ruin  by  her  own  uncle.  But  not  now,  I  must 


THE    TWO    PENNY    MARRIAGE    COl  PI.E. Page    95. 


LIFE    SCENES    IN    NEW    YORK.  97 

go  on  with  the   marriage.     The   bride   and  bridegroom  are 
waiting,  and  the  reader  for  a  share  of  the  feast. 

"Now  I  am  going  to  join  you  two  in  wedlock;  it  cannot 
make  you  worse,  it  may  better.  Look  me  in  the  face.  Now, 
Matilda  and  Thomas,  take  each  other  by  the  right  hand,  look 
at  me,  while  I  unite  you  in  the  holy  bonds  of  marriage  by  God's 
ordinance.  Do  you  think  you  are  sufficiently  sober  to  com 
prehend  its  solemnity  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Marriage  being  one  of  God's  holy  ordinances,  cannot 
be  kept  in  sin,  misery,  filth,  and  drunkenness.  Thomas, 
will  you  take  Matilda  to  be  your  lawful,  true,  only,  wedded 
wife?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"You  promise  that  you  will  live  with  her,  in  sickness  as 
well  as  health,  and  nourish,  protect,  and  comfort  her  as  your 
true  and  faithful  wife;  that  you  will  be  to  her  a  true  and 
faithful  husband ;  that  you  will  not  get  drunk,  and  will  clothe 
yourself  and  keep  clean  ?" 

"  So  I  will." 

"  Never  mind  answering  until  I  get  through.  You  promise 
to  abstain  totally  from  every  kind  of  drink  that  intoxicates, 
and  treat  this  woman  kindly,  affectionately,  and  love  her  as  a 
husband  should  love  his  wedded  wife.  Now,  all  of  this  will 
you,  here  before  me  as  the  servant  of  the  Most  High, — here, 
in  the  sight  of  God,  in  heaven,  most  faithfully  promise,  if  I 
give  you  this  woman  to  be  your  wedded  wife  P 

"Yes,  I  will" 

5 


08  HOT     COUN. 

"And  you,  Matilda,  on  your  part,  will  you  promise  the 
same,  and  be  a  true  wife  to  this  man  ?" 

"I  will  try,  sir." 

"  But  do  you  promise  all  this  faithfully  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  will." 

It  was  a  woman's  "  I  will,"  spoken  right  out  with  a  good, 
hearty  emphasis,  that  told,  as  it  always  tells,,  the  faith  and 
truth  of  woman,  when  she  says,  "  I  will." 

"  Then  I  pronounce  you  man  and  wife." 

"  Now,  Thomas,"  says  the  new  wife,  after  I  had  made  out 
the  certificate  and  given  it  to  her,  with  an  injunction  to  keep 
it  safely — "  now  pay  Mr.  Pease,  and  let  us  go  home  and  break 
the  bottle."  Thomas  felt  first  in  the  right  pocket,  then  the 
left,  then  back  to  the  right,  then  he  examined  the  watch  fob. 

It  is  probable  that  the  former  owner  of  this  principal  article 
of  his  .wardrobe,  owned  a  watch.  It  is  more  likely  that  the 
present  owner  had  been  often  in  the  hands  of  the  watch,  than 
that  he  had  often  had  a  watch  in  his  hands.  He  was 
evidently  searching  for  lost  treasures. 

"  Why,  where  is  it  ?"  says  she.  "  You  had  two  dollars  this 
morning." 

"  Yes,  I  kttow  it ;  but  I  have  only  got  two  cents  this  even 
ing.  There,  Mr.  Pease,  take  them.  It  is  all  I  have  got  in 
the  world — what  more  can  I  give  ?" 

Sure  enough ;  what  could  he  do  more  ?  He  took  them  and 
prayed  over  them,  that  in  parting  with  the  last  penny,  this 
couple  might  have  parted  with  a  vice — a  wicked,  foolish  prac 
tice,  which  had  reduced  them  to  such  a  degree  of  poverty  and 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  99 

wretchedness,  that  the  monster  power  of  rum  could  hardly 
send  its  victims  lower. 

So,  by  a  few  words,  I  hope,  words  of  power  to  do  good, 
Thomas  and  Matilda,  long  known  as,  drunken  Tom  and  Ma£, 
were  transformed  into  Mr.  r.nd  Mrs.  Elting,  and  having  grown 
somewhat  more  sober  while  in  the  house,  seemed  to  fully 
understand  their  new  position,  and  all  the  obligations  they 
had  taken  upon  themselves. 

"  For  a  few  days,"  said  Mr.  P.,  "  I  thought  occasionally  of 
this  two-penny  marriage,  and  then  it  became  absorbed  with  a 
thousand  other  scenes  of  wretchedness  which  I  have  wit 
nessed  since  I  have  lived  in  this  ceatre  of  city  misery.  Time 
wore  on,  and  I  married  many  other  couples ;  often  those  who 
came,  in  their  carriage  and  left  a  golden  marriage  fee — a  deli 
cate  way  of  giving  to  the  needy — but  among  all,  I  had  never 
performed  the  rite  for  a  couple  quite  so  low  as  that  of  this 
two-penny  fee,  and  I  resolved  I  never  would  again.  At 
length,  however,  I  had  a  call  from  a  full  match  to  them,  which 
I  refused." 

"  Why  do  you  come  to  me  to  be  married,  my  friend  ?"  said 
I  to  the  man.  "You  are  both  too  poor  to  live  separate; 
and,  besides,  you  are  both  terrible  drunkards,  I  know  you  are." 

"  That  is  just  what  we  want  to  get  married  for,  and  take 
the  pledge." 

"  Take  that  first." 

"  No ;  we  must  take  all  together — nothing  else  will  save 
us." 

"Will  that T 


100  HOT     CORN. 

u  It  did  one  of  my  friends." 

"  Well,  then,  go  and  bring  that  friend  here ;  let  me  see  and 
hear  how  much  it  saved  him,  and  then  I  will  make  up  my 
mind  what  to  do.  If  I  can  do  you  any  good,  I  want  to  do 
it." 

"  My  friend  is  at  work — he  has  got  a  good  job  and  several 
hands  working  for  him,  and  is  making  money,  and  won't  quit 
till  night.  Shall  I  come  this  evening  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  stay  at  home  and  wait  for  you." 

He  little  expected  to  see  him  again,  but  about  eight  o'clock 
the  servant  said  that  man  and  his  girl,  with  a  gentleman  and 
lady,  were  waiting  in  the  reception  room.  He  told  him  to 
ask  the  lady  and  gentleman  to  walk  up  to  the  parlor  and  sit 
a  moment,  while  he  sent  the  candidates  for  marriage  away, 
being  determined  never  to  unite  another  drunken  couple,  not 
dreaming  that  there  was  any  sympathy  between  the  parties. 
But  they  would  not  come  up  ;  they  wanted  to  see  that  couple 
married.  So  he  went  down,  and  found  the  squalidly  wretched 
pair,  that  had  been  there  in  the  morning,  in  conversation,  and 
apparently  very  friendly  and  intimate,  with  the  lady  and  gen 
tleman.  He  had  the  appearance  of  a  well  dressed  laboring 
man,  for  he  wore  a  fine  black  coat,  silk  vest,  gold  watch-chain, 
clean  white  shirt  and  cravat,  polished  calf-skin  boots ;  and  his 
wife  was  just  as  neat  and  tidily  dressed  as  anybody's  wife,  and 
her  face  beamed  with  intelligence,  and  the  way  in  which  she 
clung  to  the  arm  ot  her  husband,  as  she  seemed  to  shrink 
out  of  sight,  told  that  she  was  a  loving  as  well  as  a  pretty 
wife. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  101 

"  This  couple,"  said  the  gentleman,  u  have  come  to  be 
married." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,"  said  Mr.  P.,  "  and  I  have  refused.  Look 
at  them ;  do  they  look  like  fit  subjects  for  such  a  holy  ordi 
nance  ?  •  God  never  intended  those,  whom  he  created  in  his 
own  image,  should  live  in  matrimony  like  this  man  and  woman. 
I  cannot  marry  them." 

"Cannot!  Why  not?  You  married  us  when  we  were 
worse  off — more  dirty — worse  clothed,  and  more  intoxicated." 

"  The  woman  shrunk  back  a  little  more  out  of  sight.  I  saw 
she  trembled  violently,  and  put  her  clean  cambric  handkerchief 
up  to  her  eyes." 

"  What  could  it  mean  ?  Married  them  when  worse  off  ? 
Who  were  they  ?" 

"  Have  you  forgotten  us  ? '  said  the  woman,  taking  my  hands 
in  hers,  and  dropping  on  her  knees ;  "  have  you  forgotten 
drunken  Tom  and  Mag  ?  We  have  never  forgotten  you,  but 
pray  for  you  every  day !" 

"  If  you  have  forgotten  them,  you  have  not  forgotten  the 
two-penny  marriage.  No  wonder  you  did  not  know  us.  I 
told  Matilda  she  need  not  be  afraid,  or  ashamed,  if  you  did 
know  her.  But  I  knew  you  would  not.  How  could  you  ? 
We  were  in  rags  and  dirt  then.  Look  at  us  now.  All  your 
work,  sir.  All  the  blessing  of  the  pledge  .*nd  that  marriage, 
and  that  good  advice  you  gave  us.  Look  at  this  suit  of  clothes, 
and  her  dress — all  Matilda's  work,  every  stitch  of  it.  Come 
and  look  at  our  house,  as  neat  as  she  is.  Everything  in  it  to 
make  a  comfortable  home ;  and,  oh !  sir,  there  is  a  cradle  in  our 


102  HOT     CORN. 

bedroom.  Five  hundred  dollars  already  in  bank,  and  I  shall 
add  as  much  more  next  week  when  I  finish  my  job.  So  much 
for  one  year  of  a  sober  life,  and  a  faithful,  honest,  good  wife. 
Now,  this  man  is  as  good  a  workman  as  I  am,  only  he  is  bound 
down  with  the  galling  fetters  of  drunkenness,  and  living  with 
a  woman  as  I  did,  only  worse,  for  they  have  two  children. 
What  will  they  be,  if  they  chance  to  live,  and  grow  up  to 
womanhood  in  Cow  Bay  ?  Now  he  has  made  up  his  mind  to 
try  to  be  a  man  again — he  is  a  beast  now — he  thinks  that  he 
can  reform  just  as  well  as  me  ;  but  he  thinks  he  must  take  the 
pledge  of  the  same  man;  and  have  his  first  effort  sanctified 
with  the  same  blessing,  and  then,  with  a  good  resolution,  and 
Matilda  and  me  to  watch  over  them,  I  do  believe  they  will 
succeed." 

So  they  did.     So  may  others,  b/  the  same  means. 

They  were  married,  solemnly,  impressively,  solemnly  mar 
ried  ;  and  pledged  to  total  abstinence  in  the  most  earnest 
manner ;  and  promised  most  faithfully,  not  only  to  keep  the 
pledge,  but  to  do  u^ito  others,  as  Elting  had  done  unto  them. 
Both  promises  you  have  seen  that  they  have  kept  well. 

As  they  were  parting,  Elting  slipped  something  into  Nolan's 
hand,  and  told  him  to  pay  the  marriage  fee. 

"  I  thought,"  said  J  he  missionary,  "  of  the  two  pennies,  and 
expected  nothing  more,  and  therefore  was  not  disappointed 
when  he  handed  me  the  two  reddish-looking  coins.  I  thought, 
well,  they  are  bright,  new  looking  cents,  at  any  rate,  and  I 
hope  their  lives  will  be  like  them.  I  was  in  hopes  that  it 
might  have  been  a  couple  of  dollars  this  time,  but  I  said 


LIFE     SCENES'  IN     NEW    YORK.  103 

nothing,  and  we  parted  with  a  mutual  God  bless  you.  When 
I  went  up  stairs,  I  tossed  the  coin  into  my  wife's  lap,  with  the 
remark,  "  two  pennies  again,  my  dear." 

"  Two  pennies !  Why,  husband,  they  fere  eagles — real 
golden  eagles.  What  a  deal  of  good  they,  will  do.  What 
blessings  have  followed  that  act." 

And  what  blessings  did  follow  the  last  one ;  will  always 
follow  the  pledge  faithfully  "kept ;  will  always  follow  a  well 
formed,  faithfully  kept  union,  even  if  it  is  a  "  two-penny  mar 


riage." 


104  HOT     CORN. 


CHAPTER   VL 

THE    HOME    OF    LITTLE    KATT. 
**  There  is  a  special  Providence  in  the  fall  of  a  sparrow." 

"  He,  that  of  the  greatest  works  is  finisher, 
Oft  does  them  by  the  weakest  minister.*' 

I  HAVE  still  another  little  episode  in  this  life  drama — a 
scene  in  one  of  the  acts,  which  we  may  as  well  put  upon  the 
stage  at  this  point  of  the  story,  though  it  is  quite  unconnected 
with  those  that  immediately  precede  it ;  yet  you  will  find  a 
character  here,  in  whom  you  have,  perhaps,  taken  some  inter 
est.  It  is  the  termination  of  the  story  of  the  Hot  Corn  girl, 
whom  you  read  about  in  chapter  second,  whose  portrait  you 
have  already  looked  at  in  the  frontispiece  of  this  volume. 

You  have  read  in  the  story  of  Little  Katy,  what  a  world  of 
cheap  happiness  can  be  bought  with  a  shilling.  No  one  of 
the  thousand  silver  coins  wasted  that  night  in  hotel,  saloon, 
bar-room,  grocery,  or  rum  hole,  gave  the  waster  half  the 
pleasure  that  that  shilling  gave  to  three  individuals — he  that 
gave  and  those  who  received.  No  ice-cream,  cake,  jelly,  or 
health-destroying  candy,  tasted  half  so  sweet  as  the  bread  pur 
chased  with  that  sixpence. 

No  man  ever  made  so  small  an  investment,  that  paid  so 
well,  both  in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view  and  large  increase  of 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     SEW    YORK.  105 

human  happiness,  for  it  has  been  the  means  of  waking  up 
benevolence,  not  dead  but  sleeping,  to  look  about  and  inquire> 
what  shall  I  do  to  remove  this  misery-producing  curse  from 
among  us  ?  Thousands  have  read  the  story  of  Little  Katy,  and 
thousands  of  little  hearts  have  been  touched.  Many  hand* 
have  been  opened — more  will  be.  These  little  stories,  detail 
ing  some  of  the  sufferings  which  crime  and  misery  bring  upon 
the  poor  of  this  city,  will  be,  as  some  of  them  already  have 
been,  read  with  tearful  eyes.  You  have  read  the  story  of  a 
poor  neglected  child  of  a  drunken  mother — not  always  so — 
wasting  her  young  life  away  with  no  object  but  to  live,  with  no 
thought  of  death.  It  is  a  sad  tale,  and  it  is  not  yet  finished. 
The  next  night  after  the  interview  with  that  neglected,  ill-used 
little  girl,  the  same  plaintive  cry  of  "  Hot  corn,  hot  corn  ! — 
here's  your  nice  hot  corn !"  came  up  through  our  open  win 
dow,  on  the  midnight  air,  while  the  rain  came  dripping  down 
from  the  overcharged  clouds,  in  ju'.t  sufficient  quantities  to 
wet  the  thin  single  garment  of  the  owner  of  that  sweet  young 
voice,  without  giving  her  an  acceptable  excuse  for  leaving  her 
post  before  her  hard  task  was  completed. 

At  length  the  voice  grew  faint,  and  then  ceased  altogether, 
and  then  I  knew  that  exhausted  nature  slept — that  a  tender 
house-plant  was  exposed  to  the  chilling  influence  of  a  night 
rain — that  an  innocent  girl  had  the  curb-stone  for  a  bed  and 
an  iron  post  for  a  pillow — that  by  and  by  she  would  awaken, 
not  invigorated  with  refreshing  slumber,  but  poisoned  with 
the  sleep-inhaled  miasma  of  the  filth -reeking  gutter  at  her 
feet,  which  may  be  breathed  with  impunity  awake,  but  like 


106  HOT     CORN. 

the  malaria  of  our  southern  coast,  is  death  to  the  sleeper.* 
Not  soothed  by  a  dreamy  consciousness  of  hearing  a  mother's 

voice  tuning  a  soft  lullaby  of 

\ 
"Hush,  my  child,  lie  still  and  slumber;" 

but  starting  like  a  sentinel  upon  a  savage  frontier  post,  with 
alarm  at  having  slept ;  shivering  with  night  air  and  fear,  and, 
finally,  compelled  to  go  home,  trembling  like  a  culprit,  to  hear 
the  harsh  words  of  a  mother — yes,  a  mother — but  oh !  what  a 
mother — cursing  her  for  not  performing  an  impossibility, 
because  exhausted  nature  slept — because  her  child  had  not 
made  a  profit  which  would  have  enabled  her  more  freely  to 
indulge  in  the  soul  and  body-destroying  vice  of  drunkenness, 
to  which  she  had  fallen  from  an  estate,  when  "  my  carriage  " 
was  one  of  the  "  household  words  "  which  used  to  greet  the 
young  ears  of  that  poor  little  death-stricken,  neglected,  street 
sufferer. 

*  On  many  of  the  Rice  and  Sea  Island  plantations  in  South  Carolina 
and  Georgia,  in  fact  upon  almost  all  the  coast  lands  of  these  States,  the 
malaria  is  so  deadly  in  its  effects  upon  the  sleeper,  that  every  effort  is 
made  to  keep  awake  by  those  who  are  accidentally  exposed  for  a  single 
night  to  its  influence.  Many  of  the  most  beautiful  residences  in  the 
vicinity  of  Charleston,  are  uninhabited  by  white  persons  in  summer. 
The  negroes  are  not  at  all,  or  only  slightly  affected.  The  overseers 
often  have  a  little  cabin  in  the  most  convenient  pine  woods,  to  which 
they  retire  before  nightfall. 

No  doubt,  though  to  a  less  deadly  degree,  the  malaria  arises  from  the 
filth  in  our  dirty  streets,  killing  its  thousands  of  little  children  every 
year. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  107 

It  was  past  midnight  when  she  awoke,  and  found  herself 
with  9  desperate  effort,  just  able  to  reach  the  bottom  of  the 
rickety  stairs  which  led  to  her  home.  We  shall  not  go  up 
now.  In  a  little  while,  reader,  you  shall  see  where  live  the 
city  poor. 

You  shall  go  with  me  at  midnight  to  the  Home  of  little 
Katy.  You  shall  see  where  she  lies  upon  her  straw  pallet  in 
a  miserable  garret ;  yet  she  was  born  in  as  rich  a  chamber  as 
you  or  you,  who  tread  upon  soft  Turkey  carpets  when  you  go 
to  your  downy  couches. 

Wait  a  little. 

Tired — worn  with  the  daily  toil — for  such  is  the  work  of  an 
editor  who  caters  for  the  appetites  of  his  morning  readers — 
I  was  not  present  the  next  night  to  note  the  absence  of  that 
cry  from  its  accustomed  spot ;  but  the  next  and  next,  and  still 
on,  I  listened  in  vain — that  voice  was  not  there.  True,  the 
same  hot-corn  cry  came  floating  upon  the  evening  breeze 
across  the  park,  or  wormed  its  way  from  some  cracked-fiddle 
voice  down  the  street,  up  and  around  the  corner,  or  out  of 
some  dark  alley,  with  a  broken  English  accent,  that  sounded 
almost  as  much  like  "  lager  bier  "  as  it  did  like  the  commodity 
the  immigrant,  struggling  to  eke  out  his  precarious  existence, 
wished  to  sell.  All  over  this  great  poverty-burdened,  and 
wicked  waste,  extravagant  city,  at  this  season,  that  cry  goes 
up,  nightly  proclaiming  one  of  the  habits  of  this  late-supper 
eating  people. 

Yes,  T  missed  that  cry.     "  Hot  Corn"  was  no  longer  like  the 


108  HOT     CORtf. 

music  of  a  stringed  instrument  to  a  weary  man,  for  the  treble- 
string  was  broken,  and,  for  me  the  harmony  spoiled.  *  *V 

Who  shall  say  there  is  not  music  in  those  two  little  words  ? 
"  Hot  Corn "  shall  yet  be  trilled  from  boudoir  and  parlor, 
as  fairy  fingers  run  over  the  piano  keys.  Hot  Corn  !  Hot  Corn  ! 
shall  yet  be  the  chorus  of  the  minstrel's  song,  and  hot  tears 
shall  flow  at  the  remembrance  of  "Little  Katy."  But  that 
one  song  had  ceased.  That  voice  came  not  upon  my  listening 
ear. 

What  was  that  voice  to  me  ?  It  was  but  one  in  a  thousand, 
just  as  miserable,  which  may  be  daily  heard  where  human 
misery  has  its  abode.  That  voice,  as  some  others  have,  did 
not  haunt  me,  but  its  absence,  in  spite  of  all  reasoning,  made 
me  feel  uneasy.  I  do  not  believe  in  spiritual  manifestations 
half  as  strongly  as  some  of  the  costermongers  of  the  fruits  of 
other  men's  brains,  who  eke  out  their  existence  by  retailing 
petty  scandal  to  long-eared  listeners,  would  have  them  believe ; 
yet  I  do  believe  there  is  a  spirit  in  man,  not  yet  made  mani 
fest,  which  makes  us  yearn  after  coexisting  spirits  in  this 
sphere  and  in  this  life,  and  that  there  is  no  need  of  going  be 
yond  it,  after  strange  idols. 

I  shall  not  stop  to  inquire  whether  it  was  a  spirit  of  "  the 
first,  third  or  sixth  sphere,"  that  prompted  me,  as  I  left  my 
desk  one  evening,  to  go  down  among  the  abodes  of  the  poor, 
with  a  feeling  of  certainty  that  I  should  see  or  hear  something 
of  the  lost  voice,  or  what  spirit  led  me  on ;  perhaps  it  was  the 
spirit  of  curiosity ;  no  matter,  it  led,  and  I  followed,  in  the  road 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  109 

I  had  seen  that  little  one  go  before-  it  was  my  only  cue — I 
knew  no  name — had  no  number,  nor  knew  any  one  that  knew 
her  whom  I  was  going  to  find.  Yes,  I  knew  that  good  Mission  • 
ary ;  and  she  had  told  me  of  the  good  words  which  he  had 
*  spoken  ;  but  would  he  know  her  from  the  hundred  just  like 
her?  Perhaps.  It  will  cost  nothing  to  inquire.  I  went 
down  Centre  street  with  a  light  heart ;  I  turned  into  Cross 
street  with  a  step  buoyed  with  hope  ;  I  stood  at  the  corner  of 
Little- Water  street,  and  looked  around  inquiringly  of  the 
spirit,  and  mentally  said,  "  which  way  now  ?"  The  answer 
was  a  far-off  scream  of  despair.  I  stood  still  with  an  open  ear, 
for  the  sound  of  prayer,  followed  by  a  sweet*  hymn  of  praise  to 
God,  went  up  from  the  site  of  the  Old  Brewery,  in  which  I 
joined,  thankful  that  that  was  no  longer  the  abode  of  all  the 
worst  crimes  ever  concentrated  under  one  roof.  Hark  !  a  step 
approaches.  My  unseen  guide  whispered, "  ask  him."  It  were 
a  curious  question  to  ask  a  stranger,  in  such  a  strange  place, 
particularly  one  like  him,  haggard  with  over  much  care,  toil, 
or  mental  labor.  Prematurely  old,  his  days  shortened  by  over 
work  in  his  young  years,  as  his  furrowed  face  and  almost  fren 
zied  eye  hurriedly  indicate,  as  we  see  the  flash  of  the  lamp  upon 
his  dark  visage,  as  he  approaches  with  that  peculiar  American 
step  which  impels  the  body  forward  at  railroad  speed.  Shall 
I  get  out  of  his  way  before  he  walks  over  me  ?  What  if  he  is 
a  crazy  man  ?  No ;  the  spirit  was  right — no  false  raps  here. 
It  is  that  good  missionary.  That  man  who  has  done  more  to 
reform  that  den  of  crime,  the  Five  Points  of  New- York,  than 
all  the  Municipal  Authorities  of  this  Police-hunting,  and  Prison- 


110  HOT     CORN. 

punishing  oity,  where  misfortune  is  deemed  a  crime,  or  the 
unfortunate  driven  to  it,  by  the  way  they  are  treated  with  harsh 
words,  damp  cells — death  cells —  and  cold  prison-bars,  instead 
of  being  reformed,  or  strengthened  in  their  resolution  to  reform, 
by  kind  words ;  means  to  earn  food,  rather  than  forced  to  steal 
it ;  by  schools  and  infant-teaching,  rather  than  old  offenders- 
punishing. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Pease,  "  what  brings  you  here  at  this  time 
of  night,  for  I  know  there  is  an  object ;  can  I  aid  you  ?" 

"  Perhaps,  I  don't  know — a  foolish  whim — a  little  child — 
one  of  the  miserable,  with  a  drunken  mother." 

"^Come  with  me,  then.  There  are  many  such.  I  am  just 
going  to  visit  one,  who  will  die  before  morning — a  sweet  lit 
tle  girl,  born  in  better  days,  and  dying  now — but  you  shall 
see,  and  then  we  will  talk  about  the  one  you  would  seek  to 
save." 

We  were  soon  treading  a  narrow  alley,  where  pestilence 
walketh  in  darkness  ;  and  crime,  wretched  poverty,  and  filthy 
misery,  go  hand  in  hand  to  destruction. 

"  Behold,"  said  my  friend,  "  the  fruits  of  our  city  excise. 
Here  is  the  profit  of  money  spent  for  license  to  kill  the  body 
and  damn  the  soul."  Proven  by  the  awful  curses  and  loud 
blows  of  a  drunken  husband  upon  a  wife,  once  an  ornament  of 
society,  and  exemplary  member  of  a  Christian  church,  that 
came  up  out  of  one  of  the  low  cellars,  which  human  beings 
call  by  the  holy  name  of  home  ! 

The  fetid  odor  of  this  filthy  lane  had  been  made  more  fetid 
by  the  late  and  almost  scalding  hot  rains,  until  it  seemed  to 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  Ill 

us  that  such  an  air  was  only  fit  for  a  charnel  house.  With 
the  thermometer  at  St?,  at  midnight,  how  could  men  live  in 
such  a  place,  below  the  surface  of  the  earth'?  Has  rum  ren 
dered  them  proof  against  the  effect  of  carbonic  acid  gas  ? 

We  groped  our  way  along  to  the  foot  of  an  outside  stair 
case,  where  our  conductor  paused  for  a  moment,  calling  my 
attention  to  the  spot.  "Here,"  said  Mr.  Pease,  "the  little 
sufferer  we  are  going  to  see,  fainted  a  few  nights  ago,  and  lay 
all  night  exposed  to  the  rain,  where  she  was  found  and  beaten 
in  the  morning  by  her  miserable  mother,  just  then  coming 
home  from  a  night  of  debauch  and  licentiousness,  with  a  man 
who  would  be  ashamed  to  visit  her  in  her  habitation,  or  have 
'  the  world '  know  that  he  consorted  with  a  street  wanderer." 

"Beat  her!  for  what?" 

"  Because  she  had  not  sold  all  her  corn,  which  she  had  been 
sent  out  with  the  evening  before.  Poor  thing,  she  had  fallen 
asleep,  and  some  villain  had  robbed  her  of  her  little  store,  and, 
as  it  is  with  greater  crimes,  the  wicked  escaped  and  the  inno 
cent  suffered." 

I  thought  aloud : 

"  Great  and  unknown  cause,  hast  thou  brought  me  to  her 
very  door  ?" 

My  friend  stared,  but  did  not  comprehend  the  expression. 
"Be  careful,"  said  he,  "the  stairs  are  very  old,  and  slip- 
pery." 

"  Beat  her  ?"  said  I,  without  regarding  what  he  was  saying. 

"  Yes,  beat  her,  while  she  was  in  a  fever  of  delirium,  from 
which  she  has  never  rallied.  She  has  never  spoken  ration- 


112  HOT     CORN. 

ally,  since  she  was  taken.     Her  constant  prayer  seems  to  b« 
to  see  some  particular  person  before  she  dies. 

"  '  Oh,  if  I  could  see  him  once  more — there — there — that  is 
him — no,  no,  he  did  not  speak  that  way  to  me — he  did  not 
curse  and  beat  me.' 

"  Such  is  her  conversation,  and  that  induced  her  mother  to 
send  for  me,  but  I  was  not  the  man.  *  Will  he  come  ?'  she 
says,  every  time  I  visit  her  ;  for,  thinking  to  soothe  and  com 
fort  her,  I  promised  to  bring  him." 

We  had  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  stood  a  moment 
at  the  open  door,  where  sin  and  misery  dwelt,  where  sickness 
had  come,  and  where  death  would  soon  enter. 

"  Will  he  come  ?" 

A  faint  voice  came  up  from  a  low  bed  in  one  corner,  seen 
by  the  very  dim  light  of  a  miserable  lamp. 

That  voice.  I  could  not  be  mistaken.  I  could  not  enter. 
Let  me  wait  a  moment  in  the  open  air,  for  there  is  a  choking 
sensation  coming  over  me. 

"  Come  in,"  said  my  friend. 

«  Will  he  come  ?" 

Two  hands  were  stretched  out  imploringly  towards  the  Mia 
sionary,  as  the  sound  of  his  voice  was  recognised. 

"  She  is  much  weaker  to-night,"  said  her  mother,  in  quite  a 
lady-like  manner,  for  the  sense  of  her  drunken  wrong  to  her 
dying  child  had  kept  her  sober,  ever  since  she  had  been  sick ; 
"  but  she  is  quite  delirious,  and  all  the  time  talking  about  that 
man  who  spoke  kindly  to  her  one  night  in  the  Park,  and  gave 
her  money  to  buy  bread." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  113 

"Will  he  come?" 

"  Yes,  yes ;  through  the  guidance  of  the  good  spirit  tha 
rules  the  world,  and  leads  us  by  unseen  paths,  through  dark 
places,  for  His  own  wise  purposes,  he  has  come" 

The  little  emaciated  form  started  up  in  bed,  and  a  pair  of 
beautiful,  soft  blue  eyes  glanced  around  the  room,  peering 
through  the  semi-darkness,  as  if  in  search  of  something  heard 
but  unseen. 

"  Katy,  darling,"  said  the  mother,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Where  is  he,  mother  ?    He  is  here.     I  heard  him  speak." 

"  Yes,  yes,  sweet  little  innocent,  he  is  here,  kneeling  by  your 
bedside.  There,  lay  down,  you  are  very  sick." 

"  Only  once,  just  once,  let  me  put  my  arms  around  your 
neck,  and  kiss  you,  just  as  I  used  to  kiss  papa.  I  had  a  papa 
once,  when  we  lived  in  the  big  house — there,  there.  Oh,  I  did 
want  to  see  you,  to  thank  you  for  the  bread  and  the  cakes ;  I 
was  very  hungry,  and  it  did  taste  so  good — and  little  Sis,  she 
waked  up,  and  she  eat  and  eat,  and  after  a  while  she  went  to 
sleep  with  a  piece  in  her  hand,  and  I  went  to  sleep ;  hav'n't  I 
been  asleep  a  good  while  ?  I  thought  I  was  asleep  in  the 
Park,  and  somebody  stole  all  my  corn,  and  my  mother  whipt 
me  for  it,  but  I  could  not  help  it.  Oh  dear,  I  feel  sleepy  now. 
I  can't  talk  any  more.  I  am  very  tired.  I  cannot  see ;  the 
candle  has  gone  out.  I  think  I  am  going  to  die.  I  thank 
you  ;  I  wanted  to  thank  you  for  the  bread — I  thought  you 
would  not  come.  Good  bye — Sissy,  good  bye.  Sissy — <you 
will  come — mother — don't — drink — any  more — Mother — • 
good  b — ." 


Ill  HOT     CORN. 

"  'Tis  the  last  of  earth,"  said  the  good  man  at  pur  side — 
"  let  us  pray." 

Reader,  Christian  reader,  little  Katy  is  in  her  grave. 
Prayers  for  her  are  unavailing.  There  are  in  this  city  a  thou 
sand  just  such  cases.  Prayers  for  them  are  unavailing.  Faith 
without  works,  works  not  reform.  A  faithful,  prayerful  resolu 
tion,  to  work  out  that  reform  which  will  save  you  from  reading 
the  recital  of  such  scenes — such  fruits  of  the  rum  trade  as  this 
before  you,  will  work  together  for  your  own  and  others'  good. 
Go  forth  and  listen.  If  you  hear  a  little  voice  crying  Hot 
Corn  !  think  of  poor  Katy,  and  of  the  hosts  of  innocents  slain 
by  that  remorseless  tyrant — rum.  Go  forth  and  seek  a  better 
spirit  to  rule  over  us.  Cry  aloud,  "  Will  he  come,"  and  the 
answer  will  be,  "  Yes,  yes,  he  is  here." 

The  commendation  given  to  these  stories,  as  they  were  published  in 
the  Tribune,  was  an  inducement  for  me  to  "  keep  the  cry  of  Hot  Corn 
before  the  people,"  for  I  saw  that  they  appreciated  my  labors ;  and  I  set 
about  collecting  other  materials,  and  writing  out  notes  made  during 
many  a  night-watch  among  the  habitations  of  men,  yet  the  abodes  of 
misery,  with  which  this  city  abounds. 

Many  an  anxious  mind,  after  conning  the  preceding  chapters,  has 
yearned  after  further  knowledge  touching  the  things  therein  hinted  at. 
Many  have  asked  to  know  more  of  "  Sissy,"  and  Little  Katy's  mother. 
It  is  a  laudable  curiosity :  it  shall  be  gratified  in  due  time.  I  have 
other  stories — other  scenes  where  you  may  stop  a  moment  and  drop  a 
tear,  and  then  we  will  walk  on  with  our  Life  Scenes.  First  we  will 
finish  that  of  Maggie's  mother. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  115 


CHAPTER,  VII. 

MAGGIE'S  MOTHER. 

L«t  go  thy  hold— the  glass  has  run  out  its  sands— the  wheel  goes  down  hill. 
There  is  a  time  to  mourn. 

REAGAN  took  the  pledge,  and  took  up  his  residence  at  that 
house  of  the  destitute.  At  first,  he  did  not  ask  to  live  with 
his  wife.  He  said,  he  was  not  worthy  of  her.  He  begged 
Tom  to  write  to  Maggie  :  "  I  know  it  will  make  her  happy 
to  learn  that  I  am  here."  So  it  did.  The  rose  had  another 
rival  now.  Her  cheeks  blossomed  afresh.  Reagan  worked 
busily — he  did  up  a  great  many  little  jobs  of  joiner-work ; 
and  when  there  was  nothing  more  to  do  at  that,  he  said,  let 
me  go  into  the  bake-shop,  shoe-shop,  anywhere.  I  will  sit 
down  with  those  women  and  use  the  needle,  rather  than,  be 
idle,  or  venture  out  where  tempters  will  beset  me.  So  he 
went  on  for  some  time,  till  he  grew  stronger  and  gained  more 
confidence — his  wife  strengthened  him  by  her  counsel,  and 
then  he  ventured  out  to  work  where  he  could  earn  good 
wages.  It  was  curious  to  see  him  go  quite  out  of  his  way, 
arpund  a  whole  square,  perhaps,  to  avoid  going  by  one  of  his 
old  haunts. 

"  I  have  suffered  so  much,"  said  he  to  me  one  day,  "  from 
the  temptation  of  these  places,  where  the  liquor  is  placed  in 


116  HOT    CORN. 

our  sight  on  purpose  to  allure  and  whet  our  depraved  appa* 
tites,  that  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  poor  inebriate  loses  his 
balance  and  falls  into  the  abyss.  If  there  was  no  liquor  in 
sight,  there  would  be  no  danger  of  our  falling  back  into  old 
habits.  I  never  should  think  of  going  to  look  after  it.  Tin 
danger  is  when  it  is  thrust  right  under  my  nose.  Oh,  tha/ 
these  rum  shops  might  be  shut  up,  or  at  least,  kept  out  of 
sight !" 

This  was  the  earnest  prayer  of  one  who  knew  the  demon 
power  of  temptation  which  one,  who  is  trying  to  reform,  has 
constantly  to  combat  with. 

Those  who  sell  liquor  knew  the  advantage  to  them  of  this 
temptation.  So  they  fix  up  the  street  corners  with  all  the 
enticing  attractions  of  artistic  skill.  The  co  >1  ice  water ;  the 
free  lunch ;  the  ever-burning  light  for  the  smoker's  conve 
nience  ;  the  arm-chair  and  easy  lounge,  and  cool  room  in 
summer,  or  well  heated  one  in  winter ;  the  ever  open,  always 
free  resting-place  for  the  tired  walker,  or  ennui-tormented  gen 
teel  loafer,  are  only  a  few  of  the  inducements  to  just  "  step 
in  a  moment ;"  and  then  the  old  appetite  is  aroused  by  the 
sight  and  smell  of  liquor  in  the  glistening  array  of  cut  glass, 
and  by  the  influence  of  a  score  of  old  companions  stand 
ing  before  the  bar — they  will  stand  before  another  bar 
hereafter — or  sitting  at  the  little  white  marble  tables,  sipping 
or  sucking  "  sherry  cobblers  "  and  "  mint  juleps  "  through  a 
glass  "  straw." 

Woe  to  the  tired  walker  who  has  been  tempted  into  one 
of  these  invitingly  open  rooms.  If  he  has  the  power  to 


LIFE     SCENES     IX     NEW    YORK.  11*7 

resist  his  own  inclination  to  drink,  he  may  not  have  enough 
k>  resist  the  persuasion  of  half  a  dozen  of  his  acquaintances, 
or  the  force  of  crazed  brains  and  strong  hands,  by  which  he 
is  dragged  up  and  held,  while  they  merit  the  curse  denounced 
up  >n  those  who  "  put  the  cup  to  their  neighbor's  lips."  Per 
haps  he  will  be  taunted  with  meanness  for  coming  in  to 
drink  water  and  rest  himself,  "  and  not  patronise  the  house." 

From  this,  those  of  us  who  desire  to  see  those  places  of 
temptation  shut  up,  may  take  the  hint. 

Let  reading  rooms  be  opened,  free  to  all  who  choose  to 
come  in  and  read  the  papers,  drink  ice  water,  and  enjoy  their 
rest  in  the  shade,  or  partake  of  the  comforts  of  a  warm  room, 
for  a  five  cent  fee.  A  coffee  and  tea  room,  strictly  so,  may 
be  attached.  How  much  better  than  drinking  such  liquor  as 
those  who  visit  all  our  public  places  must  do,  or  be  set  down 
as  mean.  "  Let  them  stay  at  home,"  is  a  common  answer  to 
those  who  say  they  fell  by  the  temptations  of  such  places. 

"  Suppose,"  said  Jim  Reagan  to  me  one  day,  "  that  we  have 
no  home.  That  was  my  case  when  I  was  a  young  man.  I 
lived  in  a  common  boarding-house ;  in  my  little  uncomforta 
ble  room  I  would  not  stay ;  where  else  had  I  to  go  but  the 
public  bar  room,  and  there  I  learned  to  drink ;  I  was  a  good 
fellow  then ;  a  genteel  young  man,  and  married  a  genteel 
young  girl ;  I  did  not  go  down  all  at  once — it  was  step  by 
step,  slow  but  sure — to  Gale  Jones's  grocery  and  the  Centre 
street  cellar." 

True,  thought  I,  as  I  entered  the  front  door  of  the  first  hotel 
in  this  great  metropolis,  the  largest  in  America,  and  looked 


HOT     CORN. 

through  the  splendid  marble  hall,  two  hundred  feet  long, 
lighted  by  glittering  chandeliers,  into  the  immense  drinking 
saloon  of  that  fashionable  place  of  resort;  and  I  said  to 
myself,  "some  of  these  fine  forms  of  men,  clothed  in  fine 
linen  and  rich  broad  cloth,  may  some  day  fall  as  low  as  thee, 
poor  Jim  Reagan.  You  began  your  course  in  just  such  a 
genteel  drinking  room." 

"  Yes,"  says  he,  "  and  the  first  drink  I  ever  took  in  one,  for 
I  was  brought  up  a  temperance  boy,  I  was  dragged  up  by  the 
strength  of  two  companions,  and  held  while  the  bar-keeper 
baptised  me,  as  he  called  it,  by  pouring  the  liquor  down  my 
throat,  over  my  head,  and  saturating  my  clothes  till  the  smell 
made  me  sick,  and  then  they  gave  me  more  to  settle  it.  '  A 
hair  of  the  same  dog,'  said  they,  '  will  cure  the  bite.'  Bite  it 
was.  No  mad  dog's  bite  ever  caused  more  sin  and  sorrow 
than  that  bite  did  me.  We  cry,  *  mad  dog,'  and  kill  the  poor 
brute  ;  the  worse  than  brute  we  '  license '  to  live." 

Thus  he  would  sit  and  talk  by  the  hour.  "  If  I  can  only 
keep  out  of  the  way  of  the  tempters,"  said  he,  "  I  never  shall 
drink  again." 

He  was  now  accumulating  money ;  he  always  came  home 
to  sleep,  "  for,"  says  he,  "  I  feel,  as  sure  as  I  enter  this  door, 
that  I  am  safe." 

It  was  determined,  as  soon  as  Maggie  came  again,  that 
they  would  go  to  keeping  house.  "If  that  blessed  child 
was  only  with  me,"  said  the  father,  as  the  tears  rolled  down 
his  furrowed  cheeks,  "  I  should  feel  as  though  I  had  a  shield 
through  which  none  of  these  traffickers  in  human  souls  could 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  119 

reach  me.  My  wife  is  like  an  aged  counsellor,  there  is  wisdom 
in  her  every  word,  but  she  cannot  go  out  through  the  streets, 
leaning  upon  my  arm,  still  full  of  manly  strength,  like  Mag 
gie,  while  I  lean  upon  her  still  greater  strength — the  strength 
and  might  of  a  strong  mind." 

"  Here  is  a  letter  from  our  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Reagan  to 
her  husband,  one  evening  as  he  came  in  from  work.  "  Sit 
down  and  read  it  aloud,  for  some  how,  my  old  eyes  get  dim 
every  time  I  try ;  I  cannot  imagine  what  is  the  matter  with 
them." 

I  can.  They  were  full  of  tears.  Strange,  that  we  shed 
bitter  and  sweet  water  from  the  same  fountain. 

Reagan  put  on  his  spectacles,  took  the  letter,  looked  at  the 
first  words,  took  them  off,  wiped  the  glasses,  looked  again, 
repeated  the  operation,  laid  both  letter  and  spectacles  upon 
the  table,  got  up  and  walked  the  room  back  and  forth,  then 
he  tried  to  speak — to  utter  the  first  words  of  that  letter ;  if  he 
could  get  over  that  he  could  go  on,  but  he  could  not,  they 
stuck  in  his  throat.  At  length  he  got  them  up — "  Dear  father 
and  mother,  I  am  coming  home  to  kiss  you  both."  Simple 
words  !  Common  every-day  words.  But  they  were  strong 
words,  for  they  had  overcome  the  strength  of  a  strong  man, 
and  he  fell  upon  his  wife's  neck  and  wept  like  a  child. 

"  Such  words  to  me — me  who  have  kicked,  and  cuffed,  and 
froze,  and  starved,  and  abused  that  child  for  years.  Oh,  God, 
preserve  my  life  to  make  her  ample  amends  for  my  wrongs 
and  her  love !  Oh,  God,  preserve  her  life  to  make  us  both 
happy,  and  drop  a  tear  at  our  grave  1" 


120  HOT     CORN. 

Prayer  calms  the  spirit.  Realization  and  acknowledgment 
of  sin  soothes  the  soul. 

'Reagan  could  now  read  the  letter  without  difficulty.  His 
spectacles  did  not  need  wiping  again.  It  was  dated, 

"  Near  KATONA,  Westchester  County,  New  York. 
"  PEAR  FATHER  AND  MOTHER  : 

"  I  am  coming  home  to  kiss  yua  both.  I  don't  know  but 
I  shall  kiss  Tom,  for  he  has  written  me  all  about  it — I  know 
it  all — I  know  how  you  was  brought  in,  and  how  you  took 
the  pledge,  and  how  you  have  kept  it,  and  how  industrious 
you  have  been,  and  how  you  have  saved  your  money,  and 
how  you  want  to  go  to  housekeeping  again,  and  all  about  it — 
I  know  it  all.  Tom  writes  me  every  week.  He  is  a  good  boy. 
Well,  in  two  months  I  am  coming  down.  You  need  not  look 
for  me  before,  and  then,  if  you  want  me,  I  will  come  and  live 
with  you." 

"  If  we  want  her !  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ?  But,  then, 
what  is  she  to  do  ?  She  is  a  big  girl  now,  and  must  not  be 
idle.  I  wish  she  had  a  trade.  Every  child  ought  to  have  a 
trade." 

"  Well,  well,  wife,  let  us  have  the  balance  of  the  letter." 
"  Yes,  yes,  go  on ;  you  need  not  mind  what  I  say.     Go  on." 
"  Let  me  see ;  where  was  I  ?     '  Come  and  live  with  you,' 
that's  it." 

"And  now  I  must  tell  you  such  a  piece  of  news — good 
news.  Oh,  it  was  a  good  thing  I  came  up  here.  I  have  got 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  121 

a  trade — a  trade  that  will  support  us  all  when  you  get  so  you 
cannot  work." 

"  Heaven  bless  the  girl,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Do  wait,  wife,  and  you  shall  hear." 

"  It  is  a  nice,  genteel  trade,  too.  Now  we  will  take  a  house, 
a-d  father  will  work  at  his  trade,  and  mother  will  do  the 
house-work,  and  I  will  work  at  my  trade,  and  we  shall  live  so 
happy." 

"So  we  shall.  But,  dear  me,  why  don't  she  tell  what 
it  is  ?" 

"  So  she  will  if  you  let  me  alone.  A  girl  must  have  her 
own  way  to  tell  it ;  probably  she  will  do  that  in  a  postscript." 

"  Well,  read  on.     I  am  so  impatient." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  know  what  my  trade  is  ?" 

"  Why  to  be  sure  we  should.     Why  don't  she  tell  ?" 

"  So  I  will  tell  you.  I  am  a  stock-maker — those  things  the 
gentlemen  wear  round  their  necks.  And  it  is  very  curious 
n^w  I  learned  the  trade.  A  lady  from  New  York — oh,  she 
is  a  lady ! — came  up  here  on  a  visit,  and  for  work  she  brought 
along  some  stocks  to  make.  She  lives  in  New  York  I 
believe  she  keeps  a  few  boarders,  and  makes  stocks.  She  i&  a 
widow  lady,  quite  young,  and  very  pretty,  only  she  is  in  bad 
health ;  she  has  no  family,  only  her  uncle,  who  is  an  old 
bachelor — a  nice  old  gentleman,  who  has  adopted  her  as 
his  daughter,  and  is  going  to  give  her  all  he  has  when  he 
dies.  She  has  no  father  and  mother,  as  I  have,  and  no 
brothers  and  sisters ;  nobody  to  love  but  the  old  uncle — he 
does  love  her,  so  do  L  I  did  not  at  first  I  was  afraid  of  her. 


122  HOT    CORN. 

1  thought  she  was  some  grand  city  lady ;  and  she  used  to  sit 
and  sew  in  her  room,  only  when  her  uncle — Papa  she  calls 
him,  and  he  calls  her  daughter — *  Athalia,  daughter,'  so  sweet ; 
is  it  not  a  sweet  name  ?  Her  name  is  Athalia  Morgan — " 

"  Morgan,  Morgan — Athalia  Morgan.  I  will  warrant  it  is 
she.  Don't  you  remember,  wife,  that  old  Morgan,  the  great 
shipping  merchant  ?  his  son  married  a  sewing  girl,  and  his 
sister  married  George  Wendall." 

"  Oh,  oh,  how  singular !  It  was  she  that  was  talking  when 
Maggie  took  me  into  the  temperance  meeting  that  night, 
telling  how  her  husband  died.  And  now  Maggie  has  met 
with  another  of  the  family.  And  her  husband  must  be  dead 
too." 

"  Yes,  he  died  just  as  miserable  a  death  as  Wendall.  Let 
us  read  on  and  see  what  of  his  wife.  I  hope  he  did  not  drag 
her  down  with  him  as  I  did  mine." 

"  James,  James,  you  are  not  to  speak  of  anything  that  is 


"Well,  well,"  and  he  brushed  away  another  tear  and 
read  on : 

"  After  she  had  been  here  a  few  days,  our  folks  told  hei 
about  me,  and  how  I  used  to  run  the  streets,  and  how  I  got 
into  the  House  of  Industry,  and  how  they  got  me  from  there, 
and  what  a  good  girl  I  had  been — yes,  they  did — and  then 
Mrs.  Morgan,  she  began  to  talk  to  me  so  kindly ;  and  then  I 
told  her  everything  about  myself,  and  some  about  you,  and 
she  told  me  s.  great  many  things  about  herself.  Oh,  it  would 
be  such  a  story  to  put  in  a  book.  And  then  she  grew  as  fond 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  123 

of  me  as  I  was  of  her.  And  every  day  when  I  had  my  work 
done,  and  every  evening,  I  used  to  be  up  in  her  room,  and  she 
showed  me  all  about  her  work,  and  I  used  to  help  her,  and 
now  she  declares  that  I  can  make  just  as  good  a  stock  as  she 
can,  and  almost  as  fast.  She  can  make  eight  in  a  day  ;  when 
I  help  her,  odd  times  and  evenings,  she  can  make  twelve. 
Last  week  she  made,  with  what  I  did,  seventy-two,  and  put 
them  all  in  a  box.  How  nice  they  do  look  !  That  is  seventy- 
two  York  shillings — nine  dollars !  And  she  says  when  I  come 
home  to  live,  she  will  recommend  me — I  must  have  a  good 
recommend  to  get  work — when  I  can  get  just  as  much  such 
work  as  I  can  do.  Oh,  but  she  is  a  good  woman !  I  guess 
you  would  crr  though  as  much  as  I  have,  to  hear  her  story. 
I  will  tell  it  you  some  day.  Mrs.  Morgan  is  going  down  to 
morrow.  I  wish  I  was.  But  I  cannot.  In  two  months  my 
time  is  up ;  then  you  will  see  me.  Now,  good  night.  Say 
'good  by'  to  Tom  for  me.  Kiss  mother,  father,  and  ever 
love  your 

"MAGGIE." 

"Oh,  James,  something  tells  me  that  if  she  don't  come 
before  that,  I  never  shall  see  her.  But  you  will  be  happy 
with  her.  You  will  live  a  long  life,  I  hope,  for  her  to  bless 
and  comfort  you  in  your  old  age.  You  are  not  so  old  and  so 
broken  down  as  I  am." 

"All  my  fault,  all  my  fault.  If  I  had  treated  you  as  a 
rational  man  should  treat  a  wife,  you  would  not  be  so  broken 
down  now." 


124 


HOT     CORN. 


"  You  must  not  look  back.  Look  ahead  and  aloft.  Think 
what  a  treasure  of  a  daughter  you  have  got.  How  I  should 
like  to  see  her  once  more  before  I  go  to  my  rest,  and  give  her 
my  blessing ;  and  oh  1  how  I  should  like  to  see  that  blessed 
woman,  that  Mrs.  Morgan.  I  want  to  bring  her  and  Elsie 
together,  and  make  peace  on  earth  as  there  will  be  in  heaven, 
where  I  hope  to  meet  them  both.  They  will  soon  follow. 
This  life,  at  best,  is  short.  Mine  will  be,  I  am  sure." 

"  Don't  have  such  gloomy  forebodings,  wife ;  it  seems  to 
me  that  you  were  never  in  better  health." 

"  I  know  it,  and  never  more  happy." 

This  was  on  Thursday  evening.  On  Saturday  evening 
everybody  was  astonished  to  see  Maggie  come  bounding  in, 
with  a  step  as  light  and  quick  as  a  playful  lamb. 

"  "Where's  mother  ?  Is  she  well  ?  Has  anything  happened  ? 
Where  is  father  ?  Is  everything  all  right  with  him  ?"  were 
the  questions  she  asked,  in  such  rapid  succession  that  nobody 
could  answer  any  one  of  them. 

"Where  is  Tom?  Is  he  well?  Where  is  Mr.  Pease 
and  Mrs.  Pease  ?  Are  they  well  ?  Is  mother  in  the  kitch 
en  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  to  the  whole  string." 

Away  she  went,  three  stairs  at  a  time,  ard  then  she  almost 
overwhelmed  her  mother  with  kisses  and  questions ;  and  up 
she  went  to  the  third  story,  and  there  was  father  in  his  room, 
reading  the  Bible.  When  had  she  ever  seen  that  before? 
The  last  time  she  saw  him,  he  was  so  dreadfully  intoxicated 
that  he  did  not  know  his  own  child,  that  was  lifting  him  out 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  126 

of  the  glitter.  Now  lie  was  sober,  well  clothed,  cheerful,  and 
happy.  As  she  opened  the  door  he  read : 

"  Who  hath  woe  ?  who  hath  sorrow  ?  who  hath  conten 
tions  ?  who  hath  babbling  ?  who  hath  wounds  without  cause  'i 
who  hath  redness  of  eyes  ? 

"  They  that  tarry  long  at  the  wine ;  they  that  go  to  seek 
mixed  wine. 

"  Look  not  thou  upon  the  wine  when  it  is  red ;  when  it 
giveth  his  color  in  the  cup ;  when  it  moveth  itself  aright. 

"  At  the  last  it  biteth  like  a  serpent  and  stingeth  like  an 
adder. 

"  Thine  eyes  shall  behold  strange  women,  and — " 

And  he  looked  up,  as  his  ear  caught  a  little  rustle  of  a 
woman's  clothes,  and  his  eyes  beheld  a  strange  woman — a 
beautiful,  neatly-dressed  young  woman,  with  laughing,  bright 
eyes  and  rosy  cheeks,  and  such  a  saucy  little  straw  hat,  so 
tastily  trimmed — Mrs.  Morgan  did  that — and  altogether  such 
a  lady-like  girl,  that  he  did  not  recognise  her,  and  he  turned 
his  eyes  again  to  the  book  and  repeated  : 

"  Thine  eyes  shall  behold  strange  women — " 

"Father!" 

The  book  dropped  from  his  knees  to  the  floor,  as  he  sprang 
towards  her. 

"  Am  I  so  strange,  father,  that  you  did  not  know  me  ?" 

"  Indeed,  my  daughter,  I  was  afraid  to  speak ;  I  did  not 
know  but  a  strange  woman  had  been  sent  to  punish  me,  to 
'sting  me  like  an  adder.'  Oh,  Maggie,  you  don't  know  how 
I  feel  that  I  deserve  it.  And  yet  you  are  so  good.  You  are  a 


126  HOT     CORN. 

strange  woman.     It  is  strange,  passing  strange,  to  think  that 
my  daughter,  my  little  neglected,  dirty,  ragged,  mischievous — " 

"Wild  Maggie,  father." 

"Yes,  she  had  run  wild;  should  be  the  lovely — you  do 
look  lovely,  Maggie — girl  now  in  my  arms.  Oh,  Maggie ! 
Maggie !  this  is  all  your  work." 

"  No,  no,  father ;  you  must  give  the  good  Missionary  his 
share  of  the  credit ;  and  the  good  people  all  over  the  country 
who  have  sent  him  money  and  clothes  to  feed  and  clothe 
the  naked,  and  reform  the  drunkard.  What  should  we  have 
been  to-day,  if  he  had  not  come  to  live  in  the  Five  Points, 
fcther?" 

"  I  should  have  been  in  my  grave ;  a  poor,  miserable 
drunkard's  grave;  it  is  awful  to  think  where  else  I  should 
have  been." 

"  Well,  well,  father,  you  are  happy  now," 

"  Yes,  I  am,  and  so  is  mother,  and  we  shall  be  more  so 
when  we  get  a  home  of  our  own,  and  all  live  together. 
Why,  Maggie,  why,  who  did  dress  you  up  so  neat  ?w 

"  Oh,  my  new  friend  I  wrote  you  about,  Mrs.  Morgan — you 
got  my  letter — yes — well,  I  do  wish  you  could  see  her,  she  is 
such  a  good  woman." 

So  they  talked  on,  and  then  the  .old  lady  came  up,  and 
then  Maggie  told  how  they  had  arranged  it  all.  On  Monday, 
father  was  to  see  if  he  could  find  a  couple  of  nice  rooms,  and 
Maggie  was  going  to  see  Mrs.  Morgan,  for  Mrs.  Morgan's  old 
uncle  had  told  Maggie,  that  whenever  she  wanted  to  go  to 
keeping  house,  to  come  to  him,  she  did  not  know  what  for, 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  127 

but  she  was  sure  it  was  something  good,  for  he  was  a  good 
man,  but  he  never  let  anybody  know  what  he  did  for  poor 
folks,  he  did  love  to  do  things  in  his  own  way.  And  Mrs. 
Morgan  was  going  to  write  up  to  the  people  where  she  lived, 
and  if  father  and  mother  wanted  her,  they  would  let  her  come 
before  her  time  was  up. 

"  Your  father  will  want  you." 

"  Will  you,  too  ?     Do  not  you  want  me,  mother  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Maggie,  I  can  hardly  tell.  Who  can  tell 
what  a  day  may  bring  forth.  I  am  glad  to  see  you ;  I  have 
been  praying  all  day,  that  the  good  Spirit  would  direct  your 
steps  hither  to-day." 

"  Did  you  pray  that  last  night?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  this  morning  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  so — I  felt  it,  all  night,  all  the  morning,  just  as 
though  a  little  stream  of  fire  was  running  through  rne,  all 
over ;  now  in  my  head,  now  in  my  heart,  now  in  my  very 
fingers'  ends;  now  I  started  at  a  whisper  in  my  ear,  that 
sounded  just  like  mother,  saying,  'Oh,  Maggie!  Oh,  that 
she  would  come  !  Oh,  that  I  could  see  her  once  more !'  and 
then  I  felt  as  though  I  must  come.  I  was  afraid  something 
was  going  to  happen.  But  now  I  find  you  all  well,  I  see 
what  a  foolish  girl  I  have  been." 

"No,  Maggie,  not  foolish,  not  foolish;  something  tells  me 
that  you  have  only  obeyed  the  dictates  of  a  good  heart,  guided 
by  an  invisible  power.  But  we  will  not  talk  about  it  any  more 


128  HOT     CORN. 

now.  I  have  arranged  a  place  for  you  to  sleep  to-night,  for 
the  house  is.  very  full,  and  we  can  scarcely  find  beds  for  those 
we  have,  and  there  are  applications  for  more  poor  children 
every  day.  Do  you  remember  that  pretty  little  Italian  beg 
gar  girl,  Madalina,  that  you  used  to  go  out  with  sometimes  ? 
She  is  going  to  sleep  in  that  little  room,  and  you  may  sleep 
with  her." 

"  Oh,  mother,  she  is  so  dirty  !" 

"  She  used  to  be,  she  is  not  so  now.  She  was  so  when  she 
ran  the  streets,  just  like  another  little  -girl." 

"  Oh,  mother,  I  know  who  you  mean,  but  I  did  not  know 
that  she  had  been  improved." 

The  next  day,  the  father  and  mother  and  daughter  were 
sitting  side  by  side  in  the  chapel,  and  it  was  the  remark  of 
more  than  one,  "  Oh,  what  a  change  !"  "  Is  it  possible  that 
that  is  old  drunken  Reagan  and  his  wife,  that  used  to  live  in 
that  Centre  street  cellar,  and  that  that  is  '  Wild  Maggie  ?' 
What  a  change!  Why  she  is  real  pretty,  and  so  bright, 
and  so  affectionate — see  how  she  looks  out  the  hymn  for  her 
mother ;  and  now  they  all  kneel  together.  Well  well,  that  is 
better  than  all  drunk  together." 

After  morning  service,  Mrs.  Reagan  went  into  the  kitchen 
to  assist  about  dinner. 

"  I  cannot  tell  how  it  is,"  said  she,  "  but  I  feel  as  though 
this  was  the  last  meal  I  shall  ever  eat  with  my  husband  and 
Maggie ;  perhaps  I  shall  not  eat  this." 

She  never  did. 

Half  an  hour  after  that,  the  house  was  in  wild  commotion. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  129 

"Where  is  Mr.  Reagan? — where  is  Maggie? — call  the  doc • 
tor ! — oh,  dear  ! — oh,  dear  !  Mrs.  Reagan  is  in  a  fit." 

It  was  a  fit  which  all  must  have  sooner  or  later.  Her  fore 
bodings,  from  whatever  cause  they  came,  had  given  her  pre 
science  of  her  death. 

The  husband  and  daughter  were  soon  kneeling  over  her 
where  she  had  fallen  upon  the  floor,  vainly  trying  to  revive 
animation.  The  physician  vainly  essayed  his  skill. 

"  It  is  too  late.     My  mother  is  in  heaven." 

"  It  is  certain  she  is  in  the  hands  of  God,  and  she  died 
with  a  blessing  on  her  lips  for  her  child,"  said  one  of  the 
women  who  were  present  when  she  fell. 

"  What  did  she  say,  Angeline  ?" 

"  Sally,  how  was  it  ?  you  heard  it  best." 

This  is  drunken  Sal  and  old  Angeline,  whom  you  have 
seen  before.  They,  too,  are  inmates ;  sober,  industrious  ones, 
of  the  House  of  Industry. 

"  She  said,  *  Oh,  God,  forgive  me  all  my  sins  !  And  my 
husband,  forgive  him,  oh,  Lord!  as  I  do.  Margaret,  oh, 
God !  I  thank  thee  for  sending  her  to  see  me  once  more — 
God  bless  as  I  do  my  dear  Maggie.  I  die  in  peace,  I  die — 
dying — hap — Oh!'  and  she  fell  forward;  I  caught  her  in 
my  arms,  and  laid  her  down  gently,  but  she  never  breathed 
again." 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother,  are  you  dead,  dead,  dead !  Will 
you  never,  never  speak  to  your  Maggie  again  ?  Oh !  it  is  so 
hard  to  part  with  you  now,  just  as  we  were  going  to  be  so 
happy,  and  all  live  together." 

6* 


180  HOT    CORN. 

"  Yes,"  said  Angeline,  "  and  that  reminds  me  to  tell  you 
that  she  said  just  before  she  died,  but  I  thought  she  was  talk 
ing  wild  like,  that  if  she  did  not  see  you  again,  that  I  must 
tell  you  not  to  go  back  to  Westchester,  but  you  must  be  suro 
to  stay  with  your  father,  he  would  be  so  lonesome  when  she 
was  gone." 

The  poor  husband  was  lonesome ;  he  already  felt  it.  Then 
he  felt  what  blessings  he  had  left.  He  had  good  health  and 
strength,  and  a  most  affectionate  good  child  to  comfort  him  in 
his  old  age.  And  then  he  poured  out  such  a  prayer,  as  all 
ought  to  hear  who  lack  courage  to  go  on  in  the  glorious 
work  of  lifting  up  the  fallen,  and  giving  strength  to  the 
feeble,  and  forgiveness  to  the  erring.  The  day  closed  in  sad 
ness,  yet  there  were  some  who  witnessed  the  sad  scene  who 
felt  that  "  it  is  good  to  be  afflicted." 

The  next  day  after  these  events  I  was  in  Greenwood 
Cemetery,  that  lovely  resting-place  for  the  dead.  It  is  a  land 
mark  in  this  progressive  age,  that  shows  the  good  fruits  of  an 
improved  state  of  society.  If  any  of  the  readers  of  these 
Life  Scenes,  are  curious  to  know  what  becomes  of  the  falling 
leaves  of  this  great  forest  of  human  beings,  let  them  go  over 
the  Brooklyn  South  ferry,  and  follow  some  of  the  score  of 
mourning  trains  that  go  every  day  to  put  away  some  dead 
trunk,  or  lopped  limb,  or  twig,  leaf,  or  flower,  perhaps 
nothing  but  a  bud,  which  they  will  plant  in  earth  to  blossom 
in  heaven ;  and  they  will  see  where  a  portion  of  the  fallen  go 
to  decay.  It  is  a  place  for  a  day,  not  of  gloom,  but  sweet 
meditations,  such  as  does  the  soul  good. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  131 

I  was  meditating  over  a  late  made  grave.  It  was  by  the 
side  of  one  almost  old  enough  to  be  forgotten,  and  yet  the 
number  of  years  since  it  was  made  were  very  few,  and  very, 
very  short.  There  was  a  rose  bush  growing  at  the  head, 
but  I  saw  through  the  green  leaves  the  name  of  "  Morgan, 
Mi.  62."  I  was  not  curious  to  know  what  Morgan,  for 
my  thoughts  were  far  away.  I  did  wonder,  it  is  natural  to  do 
so,  if  that  was  Mrs.  Morgan  by  his  side,  and  if  they  had 
always  lain  so  quiet,  without  words  of  contention,  or  "  Caudle 
Lectures."  My  doubts  were  soon  to  be  solved,  for  now  came 
a  cart  and  a  couple  of  stone  setters.  How  quick,  and  how 
carelessly  they  work ;  now  the  hole  is  dug,  now  they  lift  the 
little  stone  out  of  the  cart,  now  they  set  it  upright,  now  they 
fill  in  the  dirt  around  it,  now  they  give  a  few  stamps  with 
heavy  boots  just  over  the  head  of  the  sleeper — he  hears  them 
not — now  the  stone  is  planted,  now  they  jump  into  the  cart, 
slash  the  whip,  and  curse  the  poor  old  horse  for  his  laziness, 
and  rattle  away  with  a  whistle  and  merry  glee.  Now  we  can 
read  the  name  on  the  new  stone.  Ah,  it  is  not  his  wife — it 
is  "  Walter  Morgan,  JEt.  27."  His  son — perhaps,  an  only  son 
— how  soon  he  has  come  after  his  father.  It  is  a  common 
name,  or  I  might  moralize  farther  upon  what  I  know  of  that 
name.  I  am  interrupted,  and  walk  off  a  little  way  and  turn 
to  look  again.  A  fine,  benevolent  looking  gentleman — faces 
do  look  benevolent — is  getting  out  of  a  carriage.  He  is 
about  the  age  of  the  elder  Morgan.  His  brother,  perhaps. 
Now,  he  lifts  out  a  rose  bush,  in  bloom,  in  its  little  world,  all 
its  own,  in  an  earthen  pot.  Ah,  ha !  that  is  to  be  planted  at 


132  HOT     CORW. 

the  new  stone  just  put  in  its  place.  Now  he  lifts  out  a 
lovelier  flower.  It  is  a  young  widow.  Fancy  is  at  work 
now  ;  it  says,  "  Is  she  pretty  ?"  Wo  are  too  far  off  to  discern 
features,  but  we  can  think.  We  do  think  that  a  widow  who 
comes  to  plant  a  flower  at  her  husband's  grave,  is  a  flower  of 
a  woman,  let  her  face  be  what  it  may. 

So  I  sat  down  with  pencil  in  hand,  writing,  "  Musings  at  the 
Tomb."  I  had  just  written,  "  Benevolent  old  gent  and  beau 
tiful  young  widow,"  and  was  going  to  add,  rose  bush  planted 
at  husband's  grave,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  when  somebody 
slapped  me  on  the  back — that  knocks  out  the  sentimental — 
with  a  clear  hearty  expression  of,  "  my  old  friend." 

"  Why,  Lovetree,  is  this  you  ?  Athalia — Mrs.  Morgan,  1 
should  say." 

"  No  ;  always  call  me  by  the  name  you  first  knew  me  by." 

"  Then  I  should  call  you  Lucy." 

"No,  no,  not  that,  not  that." 

"  Forgive  me,  but  I  did  not  intend  to  call  up  unpleasant 
reminiscences.  Ah,  what  have  we  here  ?  A  little  train  of 
mourners,  with  a  tenant  for  that  open  grave.  See,  that  is  the 
Missionary  from  the  Five  Points." 

"  And,  oh,  uncle,  that  is  Maggie,  our  little  Maggie  from  up 
the  country.  It  must  be  her  mother.  Yes,  it  is,  for  she 
takes  the  arm  of  a  man  with  a  crape  on  his  hat — it  is  her 
father.  Her  mother  has  her  wish.  He  will  drop  a  tear  at 
her  grave.  See,  he  does;  his  handkerchief  is  at  his  eyes. 
Oh,  it  is  a  sad  thing  for  a  husband  to  follow  the  wife  he  has 
lived  with  forty  years,  to  such  an  end  as  this.  Poor  Maggie, 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  133 

how  she  ffeeps.  I  must  go  and  se  her  as  soon  as  the  cere 
mony  is  over.  Suppose,  uncle,  that  we  take  them  in  oui 
carriage  home  with  us,  it  will  not  be  quite  so  melancholy  as 
it  will  be  to  go  back  to  the  house  of  death." 

"  So  we  will,  and  then  I  will  arrange  the  plan  for  them  to 
go  to  housekeeping  together.  I  have  already  got  a  place  in 
view." 

So  they  met,  and  so  Athalia  said,  "  Come  with  us." 

And  so  they  went.  Maggie  looked  upon  it  as  another 
remarkable  interposition,  or  something,  at  any  rate,  that  she 
could  not  account  for,  that  Mrs.  Morgan  should  have  felt 
impelled  to  come  over  here  to-day,  of  all  other  days,  and  that 
they  should  meet  so  singularly ;  "  for,"  said  she,  "  fifty  different 
parties  might  be  riding  about  among  these  hills,  and  dales, 
and  groves,  looking  at  this  lonely  poor  grave,  and  at  that 
twenty  thousand  dollar  monument,  and  yet  no  one  know  that 
the  other  was  so  near.  Well,  it  is  a  place  where  all  must 
come.  I  hope  we  shall  all  meet  our  friends  as  happily  as  I 
have  mine  to-day." 

So  they  went  home  with  Mrs.  Morgan,  and  three  days  after 
they  went  to  a  house  of  their  own. 

You  have  already  seen  how  they  were  able  afterwards  to 
say  to  others,  "  Come  with  us,"  when  a  houseless  widow  and 
her  two  children  stood  in  the  street  the  night  of  the  fire — the 
night  that  rum  and  its  effects  made  Mrs.  Eaton  a  widow. 

Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  the  benevolent  gentleman 
that  clothed  the  naked  after  that  fire  ?  You  have  seen  him. 
Turn  back  a  leaf  and  look  at  him  again  as  he  lifts  that  rose- 


134  HOT     CORN. 

bush  out  of  the  carriage,  to  plant  at  that  grave.  You  did  not 
see  him  in  the  crowd  at  the  fire,  but  he  was  there,  and  heard 
his  protege  say,  "  Come  with  us."  He  was  just  going  to  say 
it,  but  he  liked  it  better  that  Maggie  had  said  it  first.  Then 
he  said  to  himself — it  was  one  of  his  odd  freaks  of  benevolence 
— I  will  surprise  the  dear  girl  directly,  and  make  her  remem 
ber  those  golden  words  to  her  dying  day. 

You  have  seen  him.     It  was  Athalia's  uncle. 

Who  is  Athalia  ? 

Turn  over.     Read. 


LIFE     SCENES    IN     NEW    YORK.  135 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ATHALIA,    THE    SEWING    GIRL. 
«« How  full  of  briars  is  this  working  day  world.* 

«•  With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread." 

ATHALIA  wore  not  unwomanly  rags  at  the  period  when  I 
shall  commence  her  history.  She  was  clad  in  the  garb  of  a 
country  girl,  just  arrived  in  the  city,  in  the  full  expectation 
that  fortune  awaited  her,  just  as  soon  as  she  could  learn  the 
trade  of  a  dress-maker.  Oh,  how  she  worked,  and  laughed, 
and  sung !  She  was  the  life  of  the  shop.  Sometimes  she 
thought  of  home — home  where  mother  was — and  then  she 
wept.  But  the  sunshine  of  youth  soon  sends  the  clouds  and 
dew  drops  that  dim  the  eye  away  to  forgetfulness. 

Athalia  was  sixteen — sweet  sixteen  in  face  and  mind. 
What  a  bright  blue  eye,  what  soft  brown  hair,  what  wit,  and 
oh,  what  a  voice  in  song  !  and  such  a  heart,  'twas  tuned  for 
others'  woes,  and  not  her  own. 

Why  comes  this  mountain  flower  from  her  country  home  ? 

Her  father  was  a  farmer — ah !  was — would  be  still,  only 
that  he  had  swallowed  his  farm.  The  mortgage  to  the  store  at 
the  cross  roads,  the  damage  paid  in  a  law  suit  for  a  fight,  and 


136  HOT    CORN. 

the  cost  of  throwing  his  neighbor's  horse  down  his  well,  had 
left  him  without  a  home  for  himself,  and  so  his  children  went 
forth  into  the  world  to  seek  bread ;  the  daughter,  of  course, 
by  the  needle,  the  sons  at  sea. 

Athalia  chose  the  city.  How  little  she  knew  the  danger. 
She  would  have  shuddered  to  see  a  man  sit  carelessly  down 
upon  a  powder  keg  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  Not  half  so 
dangerous  is  that,  as  for  a  young  country  girl,  with  a  beautiful 
face,  to  come  here. 

Oh,  how  she  worked  one  whole  year  to  learn  her  dress 
maker's  trade,  without  one  cent  of  compensation.  Such  is  the 
law.  The  law  of  custom  with  milliners'  apprentices. 

Then  she  went  home.  How  joyfully  her  mother  opened 
her  arms ;  how  sweet  was  that  kiss — a  loved  mother's  kiss. 
Did  she  love  her  father  ?  How  could  she  love  a  man  who 
often  cursed,  and  sometimes  beat  that  mother  ?  She  went 
home  to  stay,  to  ply  her  new  trade  among  her  old  neighbors. 
How  could  she  love  her  father  when  he  would  not  let  her  stay, 
and,  like  a  drunken  brute  as  he  was,  drove  her  back  again  to 
the  city  ? 

"  You  have  learnt  a  city  trade,  and  you  have  got  city  airs  ; 
nobody  wants  you  here." 

It  was  not  so.  Everybody  wanted  her  there  but  her  mis 
erable  father.  Everybody  else  loved  Athalia.  They  saw  no 
city  airs ;  all  they  saw  was  that  a  rough  diamond  had  been 
polished.  What  is  it  worth  without  ? 

So  she  came  back  to  the  city  with  a  heavy  heart.  What 
was  she  to  do  3  She  could  go  back  to  her  old  shop  and  work 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  137 

eighteen  hours  a  day,  for  twenty-five  cents,  and  scanty  food  ; 
lodging,  as  she  had  done  during  her  long  year  of  apprentice 
ship,  three  in  a  narrow  bed,  in  a  room  with  just  air  and  space 
enough  for  the  decent  accommodation  of  a  cat,  nothing  more. 
What  hope  in  such  a  life  ?  What  would  she  have  at  the  end 
of  the  year  ?  Just  what  she  had  at  the  beginning  ?  No ;  for 
one  year  of  youth  would  be  gone. 

She  could  not  go  back ;  there  was  no  hope  there.  So,  with 
another  girl  just  as  poor,  but  just  as  willing  to  work,  she  took 
a  room,  and  took  in  work,  or  went  out  to  do  it.  Then  how 
she  was  exposed,  how  in  danger.  Libertines  live  in  genteel 
families.  Ah,  and  are  pet  sons  of  mothers  who  would  give 
dollars  to  dissipated  rakes,  and  grudge  shillings  to  poor  dress 
makers.  And  if  the  poor  girl  should  be  caught  in  the  snare 
of  such  a  son,  how  the  mother  would  rave  and  drive  her  away 
unpaid,  because  she  had  disgraced  her  "  respectable  boy." 

Mrs.  Morgan  was  one  of  Athalia's  lady  "  patrons."  Haugh 
tily  proud,  yet  not,  like  some  of  her  class,  positively  dishonest, 
cruelly  dishonest.  She  wanted  the  labor  of  the  poor  sewing 
girl,  because  she  possessed  great  taste,  and  could  dress  her 
daughters  better,  and  what  was  still  more,  though  so  little 
practised  by  the  rich,  cheaper,  than  she  could  get  their  dresses 
at  a  "  regular  establishment."  That  was  just  what  the  daugh 
ters  most  disliked.  They  knew  that  none  of  their  acquaint 
ances  wore  such  neat-fitting  dresses,  but  when  the  question 
was  put,  "  Where  did  you  get  them  made  ?"  they  could  not 
answer,  "  Oh,  we  always  get  everything  at  Madame  Chalam- 
beau's  fashionable  establishment  in  Broadway." 


138  HOT    CORN. 

They  could  not  change  their  mother's  policy,  and  so  they 
determined  to  drive  poor  Athalia  out  of  the  house. 

They  had  another  object.  Athalia  was  beautiful.  Her 
face  was  such  as  we  are  apt  to  conceive  that  an  angel  must 
have.  And  everybody  who  came  in  the  house  while  she  was 
there,  and  saw  her,  said,  "  Oh,  what  a  sweet  face !" 

This  was  gall  and  wormwood  to  the  "young  ladies,"  for 
their  faces  were  just  such  as  you  would  suppose  were  made 
out  of  those  two  ingredients,  and  they  were  true  indications 
of  their  minds.  So  they  hated  the  poor  seamstress  for  double 
cause. 

At  first  she  came  to  the  table  with  the  family.  But  the 
girls  could  not  help  observing  that  she  was  the  diamond,  they 
the  setting,  to  all  eyes.  She  was  better  bred  than  they,  with 
all  their  boarding-school  education.  Where  had  she  got  it  ? 
In  a  country  school  house,  and  her  mother's  kitchen. 

Once,  once  only,  after  tea  she  was  invited  to  sing.  Who 
supposed  that  she  could  touch  a  piano  note.  She  accepted 
the  invitation,  as  all  well-bred  girls  do,  who  know  that  they 
can  sing,  and  Walter  offered  his  arm  to  lead  her  to  the  piano. 

Walter  was  the  brother,  the  only  "  son  and  heir  of  our 
family."  He  had  just  returned  from  a  lady-killing  Niagara 
tour,  and  met  Athalia  for  the  first  time  at  the  tea  table.  It 
was  the  last  time,  the  sisters  said,  that  he  should  meet  her 
there.  She  went  home  that  evening ;  she  had  finished  her  job 
and  received  her  poor  pay.  That  was  one  of  Mrs.  Morgan's 
virtues ;  she  paid  the  stipulated  price  to  those  who  worked  for 
Uer. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  139 

What  daggers,  scorpions'  stings,  and  poisoned  darts,  poor 
Athalia  and  Walter  would  have  felt,  while  he  stood  over  her 
at  the  piano,  if  they  could  have  felt  the  glances  of  scornftu, 
angry  eyes.  How  he  was  taken  to  task  afterwards  for  paying 
attention  to  "  a  sewing  girl,"  particularly  for  waiting  upon  her 
home. 

How  he  justified  himself.  Just  as  though  there  was  need 
of  it.  But  aristocracy  had  stept  down  to  the  level  of  one  who 

"  Plied  her  needle  and  thread, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  toil ;" 
Who  sang  with  a  voice  of  saddening  song, 
Of  the  home  on  her  own  native  soil. 

Of  the  spring  and  the  brook  where  it  flow'd, 
Of  the  plums  ami  the  pears  where  they  grew, 

Of  the  meadows  and  hay  lately  mow'd, 
And  the  roses  all  dripping  with  dew. 

And  her  heart  it  went  journeying  back, 
While  her  fingers  plied  needle  and  thread, 

Till  the  morning  came  in  at  a  crack, 
Where  it  found  her  still  out  of  her  bed. 

Shall  I  ever  work  thus  like  a  slave, 

With  the  scorn  of  the  rich  and  the  proud  ? 

For  they  think  that  a  seamstress  must  crave 
For  the  work  that  is  making  her  shroud. 

Walter  justified,  apologised,  for  he  was  bound  in  the  iron 
fetters,  "polite  custom." 

44 1  found,"  says  he,  "  when  I  came  home,  a  beautiful,  well- 


140  HOT    CORW. 

dressed,  well-behaved  girl,  to  all  appearance  a  young  lady,  at 
your  tea  table." 

"Well,  she  shall  never  come  there  again.  I  always  told 
mother  that  she  might  know  better  than  to  bring  her  to  the 
table ;  and  the  pert  minx,  if  she  knew  her  place,  would  never 
try  to  stick  herself  into  genteel  company.  So  much  for 
having *a  dress-maker  in  the  house." 

"  Elsie,  Elsie,  I  am  ashamed  of  you." 

"I  think  you  had  better  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  mother." 

"  I  found  her,"  resumed  Walter,  "  at  your  table,  and  I  took 
the  only  vacant  seat,  by  her  side.  I  did  not  find  her  pert, 
but  on  the  contrary,  I  must  say  it,  better  behaved,  better 
spoken,  than  my  sister  Elsie,  when  speaking  of  or  to  her 
mother." 

"You  had  better  insult  me,  by  your  comparison,  Sir 
Walter." 

"  No ;  I  do  not  intend  that.  But  I  was  only  explaining 
why  I  paid  attention  to  the  lady." 

"  The  lady — lady  !  That  to  a  sewing  girl  who  goes  out  to 
work  by  day's  work.  Did  you  learn  that  at  college  or  at 
Saratoga  ?" 

"  I  have  learned  to  call  every  female  lady,  who  looks,  acts, 
and  talks  like  one.  I  hope  my  sister  Elsie  will  not  unlearn 
me.  I  found  the  lady  at  your  table.  I  found  her  polite  and 
diffident.  She  is  not  a  forward  minx.  I  walked  with  her  to 
the  parlor." 

"  Yes,  and  she  should  have  known  better  than  to  go  there. 
Why  did  she  not  go  back  to  her  work  ?" 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  141 

"  Elsie,  she  had  done  her  work,  and  was  waiting  for  your 
father  to  come  home,  so  I  could  get  some  money  to  pay  her; 
for  I  should  be  ashamed  to  keep  her  out  of  her  money,  or 
oblige  her  to  call  again.  You  had  spent  all  the  change  I  had 
in  the  house  in  your  afternoon  shopping.  It  was  me  that  asked 
her  to  stay.  It  was  me  that  asked  her  into  the  parlor.  It 
was  me,  your  mother,  that  asked  her  to  sing  one  of  those 
plaintive,  sweet  songs,  I  had  heard  her  sing  to  the  children 
while  at  work.  It  was  you  that  urged  her.  What  for  ?  That 
she  might  fail.  Elsie,  Elsie,  there  is  envy  in  your  heart." 

"  And  she  did  sing.  Was  ever  anything  sweeter  ?  I  can 
repeat  every  word,  for  every  note  went  down  into  my  soul, 
and  printed  itself  like  the  magnetic  telegraph.  Listen  : 

"  Oh,  I  was  born  where  waters  leaping, 

Cascade  down  the  green,  green  hill ; 
Oh,  I  was  born  where  lambkins  bleating, 

Leap  along  the  clear,  clear  rill. 
Oh,  I  was  born  where  lightning  flashes, 

'Luminate  the  green,  green  trees ; 
Oh,  I  was  bcrn  where  the  wild  wind  dashes, 

Raging  o'er  the  deep,  deep  seas. 

"  Oh,  now  I  live  amid  confusion, 

Commerce  wears  an  ugly  frown  ; 
Oh,  who  would  give  that  sweet  seclusion, 

For  all  the  pleasures  of  the  town  ? 
Oh,  how  I  love  my  native  mountain, 

Hills  and  glens  and  all  their  flocks, 
Oh,  how  I  love  that  sweet  sweet  fountain, 

Every  tree,  and  all  the  rocks." 


142  HOT    CORN. 

"  Smitten — smitten — my  brother  Walter  smitten  with  my 
dress-maker !  Faugh !  I  wonder  if  he  went  home  with  her, 
for  he  went  out  at  the  same  time  ?" 

Yes,  he  did  go  home  with  her.  It  was  her  first  false  step. 
But  ye  that  stand  fast,  do  not  censure  this  first  step  of  her 
fall.  She  was  young  and  handsome  ;  so  was  he.  Theirs  were 
such  hearts  as  nature  sports  with.  Both  were  touched.  He 
went  home  with  her.  They  got  into  a  stage  at  Seventeenth 
street  to  ride  to  Broome,  for  there  was  the  home  of  the  sew 
ing  girl.  At  Broome  street  he  forgot  to  pull  the  check  string. 
She  did  not  notice  it  till  the  crowd  of  cars,  carriages,  and 
swarms  of  human  beings,  which  fill  up  that  great  wide 
thoroughfare,  Canal  street,  awakened  her,  from  her  reverie  of 
wild  thoughts,  to  the  fact  that  they  were  already  too  fai 
down.  Before  he  could  stop  her  she  had  pulled  the  string, 
and  the  driver  held  up  and  looked  down  through  his  little 
peep  hole  at  his  passengers,  ready  for  his  sixpenny  fare,  which 
he  will  contrive  to  make  seven  cents,  if  he  makes  change  for 
you. 

Walter  acknowledged  that  he  did  not  mean  to  stop  the 
stage ;  he  wanted  Athalia  to  go  to  Taylor's,  and  take  an  ice 
cream  with  him.  But  she  was  inexorable.  He  plead,  she 
said,  no ;  she  said  it  sweetly,  and,  finally,  they  compromised  by 
her  agreeing  to  go  to-morrow  evening. 

The  second  false  step ! 

Then  he  walked  home  with  her.  She  said,  good  night,  at 
the  door,  he  said,  "  Oh,  let  me  see  you  up  these  dim  stairs." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  am  used  to  them,  I  can  find  my  room  in  the 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  143 

dark.  If  Jeannette  is  at  tome,  she  will  hear  a  little  signal 
upon  the  wall,  and  open  the  door,  then  it  will  be  light." 

"  Give  it  then." 

She  did  ;  Jeannette  was  not  at  home. 

"  Oh,  let  me  go  up,  and  just  look  in,  and  see  where  angels 
live." 

Oh,  flattery !  thy  power  is  great.  Why  should  she 
refuse,  since  he  was  to  come  again,  she  had  promised  that  ? 
So  she  said,  "  come  up,  then,"  and  away  she  tripped  into  the 
darkness,  her  step  so  light  that  he  could  not  tell  where  it  fell. 
Directly  there  was  a  little  scratch,  a  flash,  a  blue  flame,  very 
email,  and  then  a  full  white  light,  and  a  match,  and  then  a 
lamp  was  burning. 

"  Come  up.  Take  care  of  the  narrow,  crooked  steps,  they 
are  not  like  your  broad  easy  stair-case." 

She  had  made  another  false  step.  Did  far  off  visions  of 
fancy  revel  in  her  brain,  that  she  might  some  day  go  up  that 
broad  stair-case,  arm  in  arm  with  that  handsome  young  man  ? 
"What  if  they  did  ?  you  too  have  dreamed  more  unlikely  daj 
dreams. 

"  Come  up,  can  you  see  3" 

Yes,  he  could  see, 

"  By  the  lamp  dimly  burning," 

just  up  there  above  him,  one  of  the  houris  he  had  often  read 
of,  often  dreamed  o£  never  before  seen.  He  went  up,  to  her 
little  heaven  of  a  room.  How  could  she  sing  that, 

"  Commerce  wears  an  ugly  frown," 


144  HOT    CORN. 

while  everything  looked  so  smiling  in  her  mart  ?  How  could 
she  long  for  the  sweet  seclusion  of  her  country  home,  with 
such  a  bijou  of  a  hermit's  cell  here  ?  He  stood  amazed.  He 
spoke  not,  but  he  thought.  Did  she  divine  his  thoughts  ? — 
she  answered  them — how  did  she  know  them  ?  The  mag 
netic  telegraph  of  the  soul  was  at  work. 

"  Yes,  sir,  we  are  obliged  to  keep  our  room  neat,  because 
ladies  come  here  to  get  work  done,  and  they  would  not  give 
us  their  custom  if  we  lived  in  a  plain  room." 

Plain  room !  What  would  his  sisters  say  to  a  plainly  fur 
nished  room,  if  that  was  not  one  ? 

"  True,  it  is  plainer  than  theirs — I  mean — but  you  did  not 
speak — I  thought  you  spoke— yes  it  is  plain  compared  with 
rooms  that  ladies  occupy.  We  pay  enough  though  for  the 
furniture  to  have  good." 

"  Do  you  hire  it  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  we  neither  of  us  had  money  enough  to  furnish  a 
room,  only  a  few  things,  and  pay  the  rent  in  advance.  So  we 
hired  a  furniture  man  to  put  in  the  things,  and  we  pay  him 
for  the  use  of  them." 

"How  much?" 

"  Five  dollars  a  month." 

"  Five  dollars !  Why  there  is  not  over  a  hundred  dollars 
worth." 

"  No,  sir ;  that  is  just  what  it  was  counted  at  They  are 
all  second-hand  articles.  There  is  the  bedstead ;  we  furnished 
the  bed  and  bedding ;  my  mother  gave  me  that ;  Jeannette 
has  no  mother ;  and  the  table,  and  the  other  little  pine  table, 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  145 

the  bureau,  the  wash-stand,  the  six  chairs,  the  rocker,  and  the 
sofa  ;  we  made  those  ottomans,  and  the  curtains ;  and  in  that 
pantry .  Oh,  I  declare  how  I  am  running  on." 

"  Pray,  tell  me,  Miss ,  I  really  have  not  learned  your 

name  yet." 

"Athalia.  I  am  sure  you  heard  your  mother  call  me 
that." 

"  Yes,  but  I  was  going  to  call  you  by  your  sirname." 

"  Lovetree,  sir.     Athalia  Lovetree." 

"  Oh,  that  is  a  very  sweet,  pretty  name." 

"  Yes,  sir,  so  much  so  that  I  think  I  shall  always  keep  it." 

"  So  all  the  young  ladies  say.  But  it  hardly  ever  proves 
true  with  one  who  owns  so  pretty  a  name,  and  a  face  prettier 
still." 

More  flattery.  She  did  not  hear  it.  No.  She  felt  it 
though. 

"  Well,  I  am  very  sure  I  never  shall  change  my  first  name. 
I  never  shall  be  called  by  any  other  than  Athalia." 

She  thought  so  then ;  I  wonder  if  she  ever  thought  of  it  in 
after  years  ? 

"  But  you  have  not  told  me  what  is  in  that  pantry." 

"  Oh,  no  matter ;  that  is  where  we  keep  all  our  dishes  and 
cooking  utensils.  We  have  a  stove  in  winter  ;  in  summer,  a 
little  charcoal  furnace  behind  the  fire-board." 

"  And  is  your  room  warm  in  winter  ?" 

"  Why  yes,  sir,  if  we  have  plenty  of  work." 

"  Does  work  keep  you  warm  ?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  but  work  gives  us  money  to  buy  coal.     There 
7 


140  HOT    --CORN. 

was    a    time    last   winter,   when   we    were    out    of    work, 
that " 

"  You  had  no  fire  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  only  a  few  days,  we  had  to  make  up  the 
month's  rent,  eight  dollars  for  the  room,  and  five  for  the  fur 
niture." 

Walter  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  What  for  ?  He  Mt 
how  easy  it  would  be  to  take  out  a  hundred  dollars,  and  tell 
her,  to  go  and  pay  for  that  furniture,  and  not  pay  rent  for  it 
any  longer.  Then  he  thought  how  ridiculous,  to  be  so 
affected  by  the  woes  and  wants  of  a  sewing  girl.  How  his 
proud  sisters  would  laugh  at  him.  Pride  conquered  a.  heart 
prone  to  a  good  action. 

"  And  so  you  went  without  fire,  to  pay  that  usurious  old 
miser  who  owns  this  furniture,  sixty  per  cent  per  annum,  for 
the  use  of  it.  Sixty,  yes,  more  than  a  hundred  upon  what  it 
would  sell  for  at  auction.  And  what  did  you  do  for  food  in 
the  meantime  ?" 

Well,  we  did  not  need  much,  and  should  not  have  suf 
fered  any,  if  Mrs.  Jenkins  had  paid  me  for  my  work.  Oh,  if 
ghe  only  knew  how  much  we  did  need  it.  Jeannette  was 
sick,  and  what  little  money  I  had,  I  spent  for  her ;  I  had 
almost  ten  dollars  due  me  for  work,  and  could  not  get  one. 
It  is  wicked  to  keep  poor  girls  out  of  their  money ;  indeed  it 
is,  when  they  are  sick  and  suffering  for  it." 

"  And  you  suffered,  while  Mrs.  Jenkins,  with  her  thirteen 
servants,  and  coach  and  horses  owed  you  for  work  ?" 

**  Well,  we  did  not  suffer  much,  except  I  had  to  pawn  my 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  147 

black  silk  dress,  the  very  one  too  that  I  needed  most  when  it 
was  cold,  and  had  to  do  without  fire  when  Jeannette  was 
sick,  and  should,  by  all  means,  have  had  one.  She  is  a  sweet, 
good  girl ;  I  wish  she  was  at  home." 

"  Wish  again,  and  you  will  see  her." 

Both  started  as  though  caught  in  something  they  were 
ashamed  of.  Why  should  they  be  ?  True  he  had  approached 
very  close  to  Athalia,  as  she  stood  watering  her  flowers  and 
feeding  her  bird — both  windows  were  full  of  flowers,  and  over 
each  a  canary  bird ;  and  he  was  watching  all  her  operations 
with  as  much  interest  as  though  they  were  all  his  own. 

"  Poor  things,"  she  said,  "  they  look  neglected." 

She  loved  flowers.  So  did  he.  He  loved  their  owner,  but 
he  had  not  said  so  yet.  He  hardly  knew  it ;  he  would  not 
let  any  one  know  it ;  hence  he  started  when  Jeannette  spoke, 
for  he  thought  she  must  have  seen  it.  lie  blushed  and  turned 
round,  and  then  she  blushed ;  there  was  a  trio  of  blushes. 
What  for  ?  Jeannette*  did  not  think  it  was  a  stranger.  She 
thought  it  was  Charley  Vail.  Charley  was  a  sort  of  beau,  yet 
not  a  beau.  He  was  Jeannette's  cousin ;  and  though  he  did 
not  love  her  exactly,  he  liked  her,  and  I  guess  that  she  liked 
him  ;  Athalia  thought  more  than  liked  him.  Charley  would 
have  loved  Athalia  if  she  had  given  him  the  least  encourage 
ment,  but  she  would  not,  for  she  hoped  he  would  love  his 
cousin  and  marry  her.  He  was  a  good  fellow,  always  ready 
to  do  anything  on  earth  for  "  the  girls " — in  short  he  was 
Charley. 

Jeannette   blushed.     She  harl  reason  to,  for,  thinking  it 


148  HOT     CORN. 

was  cousin  Charley — who  else  could  it  be,  there  in  their 
room  alone  with  Athalia,  in  the  evening — she  tripped  up 
behind  him  and  gave  him  a  good  hearty  slap  on  the  back. 
He  turned  around,  she  almost  felt  him  hugging  and  kiss 
ing  her,  but  he  did  not.  She  looked  again,  the  light  now 
shone  in  his  face,  and  there  she  stood  before  a  stranger.  Is 
it  any  wonder  she  blushed  ?  is  it  any  wonder  he  blushed  ?  is 
it  any  wonder  they  all  blushed  ?  She  played  with  her  bonnet 
strings ;  he  twirled  his  hat ;  Athalia  could  not  play  with  any 
thing.  She  had  the  lamp  in  one  hand,  and  the  bird  cage  in 
the  other.  But  she  could  laugh,  and  she  burst  out  in  such 
clear,  musical  tones,  as  she  said,  "  Why,  Jeannette,  did  you 
think  it  was  Charley  ?" 

That  explained  the  whole.  He  understood  the  blow  now. 
Did  he  also  understand  what  Charley  would  have  done,  if  it 
had  been  him  that  got  the  blow.  Perhaps  he  thought,  for 
he  said, 

"  You  have  struck  me,  miss.  I  never  take  a  blow  without 
giving  one  back.  There." 

Did  he  strike  her  ?  What !  strike  a  woman  !  Shame ! 
Oh,  no ;  but  he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  before  she  could  be 
aware  of  the  movement,  and  such  a  kiss  !  such  a  good,  hearty 
kiss  as  he  gave  her.  Ah,  well !  who  would  not  ?  She  was  a 
nice,  sweet  girl,  not  quite  so  pretty  as  Athalia,  but  one  that  a 
colder  heart  than  his  might  relish  in  just  such  a  case.  She 
pouted  a  little,  and  talked  about  great  liberty  in  a  stranger  ; 
but  who  took  the  first  liberty  2  True ;  but  "  that  was  a  mis 
take."  ,,*;,. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW     YORK.  149 

"  Then  count  the  other  a  mistake  too." 

"  No,  that  was  done  on  purpose." 

"  So  it  was,  and  I  should  like  to  do  it  again,  but  I  will  not, 
so  rudely.  Pray  forgive  me." 

What  had  she  to  forgive?  what  to  be  angry  abou*.  Hov» 
could  she  hold  out  against  that,  "  I  should  like  to  do  it  again  1" 

After  all.  she  was  not  half  so  angry  as  Athalia.  And  what 
was  she  angry  about  ?  That  he  had  kissed  Jeannette  instead 
of  her  ?  Take  care,  little  heart,  jealousy  is  creeping  in  among 
thy  pulsations.  Take  care,  big  heart,  for  just^  now  Charley 
enters  the  scene,  and  before, he  has  observed  that  a  stranger 
is  in  the  room,  he  has  kissed  Athalia. 

Mischief  has  broke  loose  to-night.  What  is  in  the  men  ? 
What  is  in  Walter  Morgan,  that  a  kiss  given  to  that  girl,  for 
the  first  time  seen  that  night,  should  send  a  pang  to  his  heart  ? 
How  it  goes  throbbing  through  every  nerve,  and  pricks  into 
the  very  core  of  sensation.  Take  care,  big  heart  and  little 
heart,  nature  is  at  her  sports,  and  she  always  makes  pleasures 
sweet  by  contrast  with  pain. 

Finally,  all  are  reconciled.  How  they  do  laugh  over  the 
queer  mistakes.  Jeannette  would  have  sooner  struck  a  bear 
than  him,  yet  he  did  not  bite  her.  Charley  would  have  sooner 
kissed  that  same  bear,  and  risked  the  hug,  than  have  kissed 
Athalia  before  a  stranger,  for  he  is  a  good  boy,  a  little  mis 
chievous,  but  would  never  do  a  thing  to  hurt  the  feelings  of 
another,  particularly  a  woman. 

How  they  did  sit,  and  talk,  and  laugh,  and  enjoy  happiness, 
euch  as  Walter  had  never  found  in  rose-wood  furnished  parlors. 


150  HOT     CORN. 

What  would  his  proud  sisters  say,  if  they  knew  how  "  low  he 
had  sunk  himself,  to  keep  company  with  sewing  girls  ?"  But 
he  would  not  tell  them.  Take  ca*re,  young  man,  you  are 
breaking  in  upon  the  conventionalities  of  life.  You  must 
stick  to  your  caste,  in  America  as  well  as  India.  You  may 
lay  your  heart  at  the  feet  of  anything  that  is  old  and  ugly, 
even  as  your  sisters,  so  that  she  is  ton  and  of  the  ton — the 
upper  ton.  But  offer  to  love  one  who  lives,  barely  lives,  by 
her  needle,  and  see  how  your  own  flesh  and  blood  will  hate 
you. 

So  passed  the  evening  away.  Then  Walter-would  go.  But 
he  wanted  to  hear  Athalia  sing  once  more.  No.  She  had  no 
piano.  His  hand  was  in  his  pocket  again.  How  he  would 
like  to  send  her  one  to-morrow,  but  he  dared  not  say  so.  He 
did  look  around  the  room,  to  see  where  he  could  set  it.  There 
was  no  room.  She  could  not  sing  any  more  to-night.  Ask 
Jeannette.  She  sings  a  beautiful  little  song  while  we  are  at 
work.  No,  she  could  not.  She  was  afraid  to  sing  before 
strangers.  But  Charley  asked  her,  in  his  blandest  manner,  and 
then  she  would  sing  one  verse  if  he  would  go  right  home. 
How  anxious  she  was  to  get  rid  of  him.  So  she  sung  : 

"  "Why  bitter  life  with  useless  tears, 

With  mourning  unavailing? 
"Why  bitter  hope  with  ceaseless  fears, 

Of  shoals  where  we  are  sailing? 
With  lively  song  and  music  peals, 

Make  life  just  like  the  ocean, 
When  flapping  sails  a  zephyr  steals. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  l;il 

«. 
To  toss  us  with  its  motion, 

Motion,  motion,  motion. 
To  toss  us  with  its  motion  " 


"  There  now,  fc  hope  you  are  satisfied.  If  not  you  may  go, 
for  I  shall  not  sing  another  word  to-night,  I  don't  know  how 
T  came  to  do  that." 

No,  they  were  not  satisfied.  Who  ever  knew  a  man  that 
was  ?  Who  ever  got  one  favor  of  a  woman,  that  did  not  ask 
for  two  more  ?  So  they  both  asked  both  the  girls  to  go  to 
the  theatre  to-morrow  night,  and  both  promised. 

More  false  steps.    How  many  will  it  take  to  reach  the  end  ? 

Walter  went  home,  never  more  happy.  You  have  seen 
how  he  was  taken  to  task.  He  had  defied  the  laws  of  caste. 

It  did  not  require  stronger  Argus  eyes  than  his  two  sisters 
possessed  to  see  how  deeply  he  was  enamored  with  Athalia. 
How  they  did  wish  they  knew  whether  she  had  dared  to 
look  up  to  him,  as  he  had  down  to  her.  How  should  they 
find  out.  It  does  not  take  mischief-makers  long  to  contrive 
their  plot.  If  one  woman  wants  to  ruin  another  one,  there 
is  one  always  ready  to  assist  her  in  her  wicked  design.  No 
doubt  he  was  the  father  of  millinery,  for  he  caused  the  first 
apron  to  be  made,  and  he  has  assisted  largely  in  all  the 
designs  of  female  apparel  from  that  day  to  this.  Sometimes 
his  fashion  is  very  fig-leafish,  barely  hiding  a  portion  of  the 
body,  while  the  limbs,  head,  neck,  shoulders,  and  other 
"  excitements,"  are  left  exposed  to  Adam's  rude  gaze.  Then 
he  contrives  his  fashion  of  so  much  cloth,  that  those  who 


152  HOT     CORN. 

follow    it  may  lose   their  souls  in  its  attainment,  and  those 
who  make  them  may  feel,  as  they 

"  Work,  work,  work, 
Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof;"   » 
That  they  are  weaving  a  web  with  sin  for  the  woo^ 
"  Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim, 
Till  the  eyes  grow  heavy  and  dim, 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 
A  dress  for  the  living  and  dead." 

Mischief  is  always  busy.  It  must  be  so  with  an  envious 
wicked  woman. 

The  Morgans  changed  their  tactics,  and  adopted  those 
more  wicked  than  I  could  invent 

They  soon  found  that  they  wanted  more  dresses,  and  what 
was  very  remarkable,  they  did  not  want  to  go  to  the  French 
dress-maker.  What  could  be  the  reason  ?  They  had  watched 
their  brother ;  they  had  seen  him  go  to  Athalia's ;  they  had 
seen  him  in  the  theatre  with  her  ;  they  had  met  them  walk 
ing,  arm  in  arm,  in  Broadway,  "  the  shameless  hussey ;"  and 
once  they  had  entered  Thompson's,  and  walked  upstairs  to 
take  ice  cream,  "  actually  over  our  heads."  Walter  Morgan, 
the  richest  merchant's  son,  in  New  York,  gallanting  a  seam 
stress — their  own  dress-maker.  And  every  day  some  of  their 
acquaintance  were  asking  them,  "  Who  is  that  beautiful  girl 
I  saw  with  Walter  ?"  Of  course  they  did  not  know ;  how 
could  they  tell  that  he  had  taken  up  with  "such  a  thing?" 
In  vain  they  talk  to  him,  he  was  mum,  or  if  he  spoke  of  her, 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  153 

it  was  with  the  highest  respect.  Would  he  marry  her  ? 
Ah,  there  was  the  rub. 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  said  Elsie,  "  that  he  would  not  ruin  her,  and 
that  would  be  the  end  of  it." 

Did  a  spirit  furnish  that  cue,  or  was  it  a  wicked  woman's 
own  conceit  ?  At  any  rate,  it  was  a  cue  upon  which  they 
acted.  Athalia  was  sent  for,  and  the  young  ladies  never 
were  so  affable  before.  Every  opportunity  was  contrived  for 
Walter  to  accomplish  the  purpose  of  a  villain.  Their 
schemes  had  the  exact  contrary  effect  desired.  He  had 
made  such  advances  at  first  as  "  men  about  town  "  do  make, 
and  had  met  with  such  a  decided  repulse,  not  an  angry  one, 
but  a  virtuous  one,  that  he  never  would  try  again. 

"  I  expected  it,"  said  she  to  his  proposals,  "  I  am  used  to  it 
— I  am  almost  every  day  exposed  to  such  tempting  offers, 
to  escape  a  life  of  poverty — I  have  ceased  to  look  upon  theiK 
as  insulting — nature,  and  fashion,  and  the  state  of  society,  are 
such  in  this  city,  that  a  girl  with, an  unfortunate  face  like 
mine,  must  fall,  unless  she  is  possessed  of  such  fortitude  as 
but  few  young  girls  are  naturally  gifted  with.  You  may  ask 
me  that  question  every  day ;  every  day  you  may,  if  you  feel 
like  wounding  the  feelings  of  a  poor  girl,  repeat  your  ques 
tion,  and  every  day  you  will  get  the  same  answer." 

"Athalia,  forgive  me.  Oh,  forgive  me  ;  I  never  will  repeat 
the  question  again  ;  whether  you  forgive  me  or  not,  you  need 
have  no  fear  of  that. 

What  a  failure  then  had  his  sisters  made.  They  did  just 
what  they  did  not  intend  to  do ;  they  led  Walter  to  think, 

7* 


154  HOT     CORN. 

that  his  family  would  approve  a  match  with  one  so  virtuous, 
so  beautiful,  so  lovely,  even  if  she  was  a  sewing  girl,  and  he 
began  to  build  castles  in  the  air  upon  this  foundation.  They 
were  very  sandy,  and  *a  storm  was  approaching  that  would 
soon  beat  upon  the  frail  walls,  and  like  all  such  fabrics,  down 
they  will  tumble.  ^. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW   YORK.  155 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ATHALIA,    THE    SEWING    GIRL. 

"  One  sorrow  never  comes  but  brings  an  heir, 
That  may  succeed  as  its  inheritor." 

"  Proper  deformity  seems  not  in  the  fiend 
So  horrid,  as- in  woman." 

MARRIAGE,  death,  bankruptcy,  poverty,  sin,  and,  finally, 
"  plucked  like  a  brand  from  the  burning,"  are  the  contents, 
the  introduction,  and  peroration,  of  tllis  chapter.  If  you  are 
satisfied  at  a  glance,  you  can  pass  on,  the  filling  up,  is  but  the 
shading  of  the  sketch.  But  if  you  are  curious  to  know  who 
marries,  who  dies,  and  'who  does  worse — read. 

"  It  is  but  a  step  from  the  palace  to  the  tomb,"  yet  the 
road  sometimes  seems  a  long  and  dreary  one,  leading  through 
strange,  dark  places. 

I  have  come  to  the  conclusion,  that  lovers  of  romance,  and 
those  who  cater  for  them,  writing  tales  of  fiction,  havo 
mistaken  their  vocation.  Let  them  gather  up  and  detail  a 
few  of  the  incidents  of  real  Life  Scenes  as  they  occur,  and 
there  will  be  no  occasion  for  fiction.  So  let  us  on  with  our 
narration  of  events. 

Mr.  Morgan  was  a  merchant,  wealthy  as  Croesus,  perhaps 
more  so ;  and  he  had  more  need  to  be,  for  he  lived  "  up  town," 


156  HOT     CORN. 

in  "up  town"  style.  The  simple  interest  upon  the  cost  U  uia 
house  and  furniture  was  seven  thousand  dollars  a  year,  and 
his  annual  expenses  double  that  sum. 

Of  course  his  daughters  had  never  taken  a  stitch  in  their 
lives.  They  had  been  to  school,  where  nothing  useful  is  taught ; 
and  learned  what  is  called  music,  and  could  waltz  to  perfec 
tion.  Walter,  had  been  to  college.  What  had  he  learnt? 
To  drink  a  bottle  of  wine  every  day  after  dinner,  and  "  fill  up," 
with  mint  juleps,  sherry  coblers,  and  brandy  smashes,  the 
intermediate  time.  Not  one  useful  thing  had  either  of  them 
been  taught,  not  one  lesson  in  the  art  of  self-support ;  all  was 
self-indulgence.  They  laughed,  or  would  have  laughed  at  the 
idea,  if  any  one  had  dared  to  mention  it,  that  the  time  would 
ever  come,  that  they  would  have  occasion  to  lift  a  hand  to 
procure  their  own  bread. 

It  is  a  bad  school — it  has  many  scholars. 

Mr.  Morgan  came  home  one  day  in  unusual  glee ;  he  was 
naturally  a  stern  man.  He  had  heard  of  the  very  successful 
voyage  of  the  Matilda — named  after  his  daughter — to  China, 
where  she  would  load  with  teas  and  silks  for  a  home  voyage. 
She  was  insured  in  a  very  rich  London  office*  Some  of  his 
cautious  friends  advised  him  to  "  hedge,"  by  insuring  also  in 
other  offices ;  he  had  never  met  with  a  single  loss  in  his  life  ; 
he  had  often  been  his  own  insurer,  and  took  about  half  the 
value  of  the  Matilda  now  on  his  own  insurance  book,  which 
showed  a  great  many  thousand  dollars  in  his  favor. 

"  Yes,"  said  a  Paul  Pry,  of  my  acquaintance,  "  more  thou 
sands  than  he  is  now  worth,  if  his  debts  were  paid." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  157 

Who  believed  it  ?  Not  the  bank* ,  which  loaned  him  any 
amount  he  desired.  Not  the  wife,  and  son,  and  daughters,  foi 
that  stern  husband  and  father  never  told  them  of  his  business. 

"  That  is  my  business,"  was  the  cut-off  valve  which  always 
shut  down  upon  every  question  as  certain  as  that  of  the  steam 
engine  at  the  point  where  it  must  change  the  motion. 

After  dinner  and  the  second  bottle,  the  family  were  startled 
by  the  sudden  announcement  he  made  for  to-morrow. 

"  We  start  for  Lake  George  to-morrow  morning ;  come, 'get 
ready." 

"  Why,  father,  what  has  started  you  all  of  a  sudden  ?" 

"  That's  my  business." 

"  Well,  we  cannot  get  ready,  no  way  in  the  world." 

"  Pshaw  !     I  could  get  a  ship  ready  before  ten  o'clock." 

"  But  we  cannot  get  new  hats." 

"Plenty  of  time.     Start  right  out." 

"  To-night  ?  Buy  a  hat  in  the  evening,  who  ever  heard  of 
such  a  thing  ?  What  would  Mrs.  Grundy  say  ?" 

"  Ask  her,  she  is  going  with  us ;  or  rather,  we  are  going 
with  them.  Grundy  is  in  shoal  water,  and  wants  to  get  out 
of  sight  a  few  days ;  and  I  want  he  should,  for  I  am  on  his 
paper  heavy." 

"  Oh',  it  is  absolutely  impossible  for  us  to  go  to  our  milliner 
to-night." 

"  Go  in  the  morning,  then.     Time  enough." 

"  What  ?  before  ten  o'clock.     How  vulgar  you  are,  father." 

"  Very  well :  if  you  cannot  get  up  new  flying  gibs,  go  to 
eaa  with  the  old  ones." 


158  HOT    CORN. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we  might  send  for  Madam ^Pantanosi  to 
call  in  the  morning ;  but,  dear  me,  there  are  our  dresses  all  in 
the  work-room,  not  one  of  them  done.  You  don't  expect 
Athalia  is  going  to  finish  them  to-night,  do  you  ?" 

"  Have  you  no  others  ?" 

"  What  if  we  have  ?  the  Grundys  know  that  we  have  new 
ones  making,  and  of  course,  will  expect  to  see  them.  You 
don't  expect  your  daughters,  I  hope,  to  wear  old  dresses,  on  a 
tour  to  the  Lakes  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?     That  is  the  place  to  wear  them."- 

"  You  may  talk,  father,  but  it  is  out  of  the  question." 

"  Well,  settle  •  it  your  own  way.  I  go  to-morrow,  and  if 
you  are  going  with  me,  you  had  better  be  getting  ready; 
besides,«»let  me  tell  you,  young  Wendall  is  going  up  too. 
We  are  going  to  have  some  great  sport,  fishing." 

That  decided  Elsie.  If  George^Wendall  and  the  Grundys 
were  going,  she  must  go,  for  he  and  Minnie  Grundy  needed 
watching.  She  would  go,  if  she  wore  the  old  hat,  and  a  dress 
that  had  been  worn  twice  before. 

"  Where  is  that  seamstress  ?  she  must  work  all  night,  and 
get  my  dress  done  any  way." 

"Elsie,  daughter,  she  cannot  do  that,  her  eyes  are  very 
weak.  You  had  better  take  her  along  with  us,  the  poor  girl ; 
give  her  a  little  country  air,  and  let  her  finish  your  dresses 
there." 

u  Yes,  yes,  that's  it,  wife,  let  her  go  along.  She  appears  to 
be  a  right,  tight  little  craft  A  sail  will  do  her  good.  What 
a  pity. she  did  not  hail  from  the  right  port." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  159 

"You  have  very  curious  notions,  father." 

"  That  is  my  business." 

"  Well,  for  my  part," .  says  Matilda,  "  I  think  she  can  go 
just  as  well  as  not;  our  maid  and  she  can  lave  a  room 
together,  and  nobody  need  to  know  that  we  have  brought 
a  seamstress  along  with  us ;  if  they  did,  they  would  think  it 
very  vulgar.  Of  course,  she  won't  come  to  the  table  with  us, 
at  the  hotel." 

"  No,  indeed  ;  I  guess  she  will  not ;  though,  I  suppose,  we 
shall  have  a  private,  table  ;  shall  we  not,  father?" 

"That  is  my  business." 

But* as  it  was  settled  that  she  was  to  go,  it  was,  finally, 
thought  necessary  to  tell  her  so,  and  she  was  sent  for,  and 
told  of  the  arrangement. 

How  could  she  go  ?  How  start  so  sudden  ?  How  leave 
Jeannette?  She  could  not  go.  Yet  she  would  like  to. 
Perhaps  she  never  would  have  another  opportunity.  She 
would  go  down  and  see  Jeannette,  and  if  she  could  go,  she 
would  come  up  very  early.  Away  she  ran  upstairs  for  her 
little  straw  hat  and  black  mantilla.  Walter  had  been  a 
"  silent  member "  of  the  party.  What  wild  thoughts  ran 
through  his  brain,  when  he  found  that  Athalia  was  to  be  one 
of  the  party.  Did  he  dream  of  the  shady  walk,  the  moon 
lit  lake,  and  egg-shell  boat,  with  only  two  in  it,  floating  upon 
the  fc  glassy  surface  of  the  water?  Did  he  think  that  he 
should  climb  the  rocks  with  her,  and  wander  through  the 
ruins  of  old  Ticonderoga  ?  Yes,  he  did  dream ;  youth  do 
dream..  Did  she  dream,  while  she  stood  before  the  glass. 


160  HOT     CORN. 

tying  her  bonnet  strings  ?  What  of  ?  Of  the  hook  that  he 
would  bait  and  put  in  her  hands,  and  the  fish  that  would  be 
caught.  Fish  !  It  is  not  fish  alone  that  young  girls  catch, 
when  young  men  bait  hooks  for  -them,  in  wild  woods,  and 
lonely  glens,  where  mountain  streams  murmur  soft  music. 

As  she  came  down  upon  the  steps,  Walter  was  waiting 
there.  What  for  ?  For  a  poor  sewing  girl.  He  wanted,  he 
said,  that  she  should  stop  with  him  and  pick  out  a  hat  and 
some  little  articles,  a  toilet  box,  and  sundry  conveniences  or 
necessaries,  to  one  on  a  journey,  for  his  sister  Matilda. 

Oh  yes,  she  would  do  that,  with  pleasure,  if  he  wished  it. 
He  did  wish  it.  The  selections  were  made  with  great  taste 
and  without  regard  to  expense.  The  hat  was  a  little  treasure. 

WTiat  was  that  sigh  for  ?  Can  a  woman — a  young  girl — 
just  on  the  eve,  too,  of  a  journey  to  a  watering  place,  see  such 
a  hat  shut  up  in  its  paper  case,  without  a  sigh  ?  It  is  more 
than  human  nature  ever  could  do.  Athalia  is  human,  and 
that  hat  is  just  such  a  one  as  she  would  like  herself.  She  is 
too  poor.  So  she  sighed  and  went  home. 

"Shall  I  send  it?" 

"  Let  it  be  until  I  return,  and  then  I  will  give  directions." 

It  is  no  matter  what  Walter  said  to  her  on  the  way  home, 
but  she  had  determined  to  go  with  the  Morgans,  to  Lake 
George,  and  so  she  told  him. 

"Good  night  then,  I  must  go  home  and  get  ready,  you 
know  what  the  word  is  with  father — '  that  is  my  business.' " 

He  had  a  little  other  business.  He  went  back  to  the  store, 
and  f*ave  the  necessary  orders  about  the  purchav 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  161 

"  Would  the  lady  be  kind  enough  to  write  a  little  note  that 
he  would  dictate,  and  put  it  in  the  bonnet  box  ?" 

"  Certainly,  anything  to  oblige  the  gentleman.  Was  that 
his  sister  ?  His  cousin  perhaps  ?  Well,  she  is  very  pretty,  at 
any  rate.  Was  that  her  name  ?  What  a  sweet  name." 

What  sweet  words  to  Walter.  How  we  do  like  to  hear 
those  we  love  spoken  of  in  such  words. 

How  Athalia  busied  herself  getting  her  few  things  ready. 
What  she  lacked,  Jeannette,  the  good  soul,  lent  her.  "She 
never  thought  how  lonely  the  room  would  be  for  the  two  or 
three  weeks  she  would  be  away. 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  few  dollars  to  spare,  Jeannette,  I  certainly 
would  go  and  buy  just  such  a  hat  as  I  picked  out  this  evening 
for  Matilda  Morgan.  It  was  very  pretty.  And  Walter,  he 
admired  it  too.  He  said  it  was  so  tasty,  when  I  tried  it  on, 
to  let  him  see  how  it  looked." 

Just  then  there  was  a  rap  at  the  door. 

"  Oh  there  comes  cousin  Charley." 

No,  it  could  not  be  Charley,  it  was  a  little  rap.  The  door 
was  opened,  and  there  stood  a  little  girl  with  a  bandbox  and 
bundle. — It  is  a  shame  to  send  such  little  girls  out  late  in  the 
evening  with  such  heavy  bundles. 

"  Does  Miss  Lovetree  live  here  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  this  is  the  place." 

"  Oh  dear,"  says  Jeannette,  "  more  work.  Who  can  this  be 
from  ?  Why,  Athalia,  what  is  the  matter,  you  look  amazed  ?n 

"  I  am  amazed.    Is  there  no  mistake  in  the  direction  ?" 


1G2  HOT    CORN. 

"  No,  it  is  Miss  Athalia  Lovetree.  No.  —  Broome  street, 
up-stairs." 

"  Oh !  I  cannot  take  it,  indeed  I  cannot.  Accept  such  a 
present  from  him  ?  No,  no,  no." 

lie  had  thought  of  that.  Jeannette  by  this  time  had 
the  bandbox  open.  Did  woman  ever  resist  that  temptation  ?  j 

"  Ah  here  is  a  note.     This  will  explain  the  mystery." 

'• 
"  To  Miss  LOVETREE  : — 

"  As  it  is  decided  that  you  will  go  with  us  to  Lake  George,  please 
accept  a  few  things  that  you  will  need,  which  I  have  coin  missioned  my 
son  to  buy. 

"  From  your  friend, 

"  MRS.  MORGAN." 

"  Oh  that  is  a  different  thing,  if  they  come  from  her.  And 
then  for  him  to  pretend  all  the  time  that  they  were  for  his 
sister.  It  is  too  bad.  Oh,  but  it  is  a  love  of  a  hat  though  !  is 
it  not,  Jeannette  ?" 

Yes,  it  was ;  that  was  settled.  First  one  tried  it  on,  and 
then  the  other.  Jeannette  said  it  was  a  bride's  hat.  Athalia 
said  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself  to  say  so.  Then  all 
the  other  little  bijouterie  were  overhauled,  and  looked  at, 
and  talked  over,  and  praised,  and  then  the  note  was  read  again, 
and  the  postscript ;  there  was  a  postscript,  there  always  is  a 
postscript  to  a  woman's  letter.  It  was  the  postscript  that  gave 
it  the  air  of  genuineness.  It  read  : 

"  P.  S. — Don't  say  a  word  to  me,  or«hint  where  the  hat  came  from, 
for  I  don't  want  Mr.  Morgan  or  the  girls  ever  to  know;  nobody  knows 
but  Walter." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  163 

No,  nobody  knows  but  Walter.  There  was  no  fiction  in 
that. 

In  the  morning  there  was  another  rap — louder  this  time. 
It  did  not  disturb  any  sleep  though  ;  there  had  been  none  in 
that  room  that  night.  It  was  John,  come  for  the  trunk  and 
bandbox — two  things  that  a  modern  lady  never  travels  with 
out.  There  was  a  wagon  load  of  them  left  the  Morgan  and 
Grundy  mansions  that  morning,  and  they  and  their  owners 
all  arrived,  in  due  course  of  cars  and  locomotives,  at  Lake 
George. 

Mr.  Morgan  and  George  Wendall  fished,  the  girls  flirted, 
Athalia  sewed  and  sighed,  and  walked  out  evenings,  slyty, 
with  -Walter  Morgan. 

More  false  steps.  Sly  walks  in  town  are  bad — in  the  coun 
try,  dangerous.  There  are  a  great  many  precipices,  down 
which  such  a  couple  may  tumble. 

George  was  a  glorious  fishing  companion  for  the  shipping 
merchant.  He  could  row  and  drive,  and  get  up  all  the  fixings ; 
and,  after  dinner,  talk,  and  laugh,  and  drink,  till  both  went  to 
bed  "glorious." 

"  Mr.  Morgan,  you  drink  one  bottle  too  many." 

"  Pshaw.     What  if  I  do  ?  that  is  my  business." 

It  is  sometimes  the  wife's  business. 

George  was  a  boon  companion,  that  was  all.  He  had 
nothing,  did  nothing,  lived  somehow,  dressed  well — ill-natured 
folks  said  he  did  not  pay  his  tailor. 

Who  ever  thought  that  he  would  be  Mr.  Morgan's  son-in- 
law  ?  He  did,  and  so  had  his  daughter,  Elsie,  lately  concluded, 


104  HOT     CORN. 

for  the  country  air  and  scenery  are  provocatives  to  that 
end. 

"Ask  father." 

"  Enough  said." 

He  did.     He  took  care  to  ask  him  just  at  the  right  time. 

"Why,  George,  my  boy,  good  fellow  to  fish.  Did  not 
think  you  had  your  hook  there.  Got  any  bait  ?  No.  Well 
I  have.  Enough  for  both  of  us.  I  will  bait  your  hook,  boy. 
That  is  my  business." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.     When  shall  it  be  ?"  * 

George  knew  the  art  of  fishing  with  a  fresh  bait,  and  never 
losing  sight  of  the  fish  after  he  had  tasted  it,  until  he  had  him 
safe  bagged. 

"  When  shall  it  be  ?  Now,  now — right  off  to-night. 
Nothing  like  going  to  sea  while  the  tide  serves." 

He  was  a  prompt  man  always.  It  was  no  use  to  say  no, 
after  he  had  said  yes,  or,  "  that  is  my  business ;"  so  in  half  an 
hour  after  that,  Elsie  Morgan  was  Elsie  Wendall. 

Of  course  more  wine  was  drank,  after  which  a  -letter  was 
brought  to  him,  from  his  head  clerk,  marked,  "  Important — 
in  haste."  So  Mrs.  Morgan  told  him. 

"  That  is  my  business ;  take  it  up  to  my  room.  Do  you 
think  I  am  going  to  read  the  stupid  letters  of  old  Precision 
at  this  time  of  the  evening,  and  my  daughter  just  married  ?" 

At  ten  o'clock  next  morning,  after  the  mail  had  gone,  he 
read  : 

"  Sir  :— 

11  We  have  advices  by  telegraph  from  London,  just  as  the  steamer 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  .          165 

was  leaving  port,  of  the  failure  of  the  London  insurance  office,  in 
which  the  Matilda  is  insured.  She  is  now  over-due,  and  mi  yet 
reported.  Shall  I  insure  her  ?  Be  sure  to  answer  by  first  mail. 

"  JAMES  PBTTISION." 

How  the  bell  did  ring ;  how  he  stamped,  and  swore,  and 
wrote,  and  yet  he  could  not  send  his  letter  till  next  morning. 

"  Why  did  not  old  Precision  insure  at  once  ?  Every  dollar 
on  earth  would  be  swallowed  up  if  that  ship  were  lost." 

Simply  because  he  was  Precision,  and  the  merchant,  who 
had  directed  him  for  forty  years,  had  never  given  him  leave  to 
act,  upon  his  own  discretion,  in  an  emergency  like  this. 

"  That  is  my  business,"  was  the  unvarying  answer. 

Two  days  after,  he  had  another  letter  from  his  precise  clerk. 
He  did  not  order  it  up  to  his  room,  to  wait  till  next  morning, 
for  he  was  in  a  tearing  passion  when  it  was  handed  him  ;  and 
he  felt  as  though  he  would  have  opened  it  if  the  biggest  rocks 
in  that  mountainous  region  had  been  piled  upon  it. 

What  had  so  disturbed  the  rich  merchant  ?  Those  who  have 
them  not,  are  apt  to  fancy  that  riches  and  happiness  are 
handmaids.  What  was  the  matter  ?  His  son,  his  only  son, 
had  just  approached  him,  taking  advantage,  as  Wendall  had, 
of  a  propitious  hour,  when  wine  had  done  its  work — he  drank 
brandy  since  the  news  in  that  letter,  and  that  fired,  not  soothe,d 
him — he  approached  him  with  a  beautiful  sweet  girl  upon  his 
arm,  to  ask  his  consent  to  their  marriage. 

Mrs.  Wendall  screamed  and  fainted — that  is,  in  appearance. 

Matilda  said, 


106  HOT    CORN. 

"Why,  "Walter!  to  that  girl — marry  that  ming — a  dress 
maker  !" 

Mrs.  Morgan  simply  said,  "Walter,  you  have  disgraced 
yourself  and  the"  mother  that  bore  you.  And  I  never  wish  to 
see  you  again." 

Athalia  trembled  and  quailed  before  the  storm  of  angry 
words  and  envenomed  looks  that  surrounded  her.  How  gladly 
would  she  have  escaped.  It  was  too  late. 

'•  Father,  your  consent." 

"Never!  You,  my  only  son,  marry  a  common  sewing 
girl,  never." 

"  It  is  too  late.     Here  is  my  marriage  certificate." 

His  father  opened  his  mouth  to  curse  him.  What  for? 
He  had  married  a  girl  he  loved — a  girl,  handsome,  virtuous, 
industrious,  but  poor — a  seamstress. 

"  A  letter,  sir ;"  said  a  servant. 

"  Give  it  me." 

He  tore  it  open  and  read  ; 

"Sin:— 

"  Yours  of  the  1 2th  inst.  came  too  late.  News  reached  the  city  an 
hour  hefore  that  the  Matilda  was " 

He  did  not  say  lost.  He  looked  it.  He  looked  at  his  son 
and  his  poor  trembling  little  wife,  as  though  he  wished  them 
both  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  with  the  Matilda  and  hei 
cargO — all  his  fortune !  He  felt  all  the  envenomed  bitterness 
that  a  violent v  natural  temper  can  feel,  when  heated  and  in 
flamed  by  drunkenness ;  for  he  was  drunk,  fashionably  drunk ; 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  167 

but  not  so  much  so  but  he  could  feel  how  irretrievably  ruined 
he  was,  and  that  the  failure  to  insure  was  occasioned  by 
drunkenness,  such  drunkenness  as  the  highest  class  of  society 
indulge  in,  when  they  take  an  "extra  bottle,"  after  dinner, 
upon  extraordinary  occasions.  He  knew  the  fault  was  all 
his  own.  He  had  said,  when  urged  to  open  the  letter, 
an  answer  to  which  would  have  saved  all,  "that  is  my 
business." 

It  was  a  sad,  sad  business.  That  one  more  bottle  had 
beggared  himself,  and  all  that  were  dependant  upon  him.  He 
had  just  married  one  daughter  to  a  man  whose  only  qualifica 
tion  was  "  a  good  fellow,"  who  could  shoot,  fish,  smoke,  drink, 
drive  fast  horses,  cheat  his  tailor,  and  the  poor  widow  board 
ing-house  keeper,  and,  finally,  take  advantage  of  a  besotted  old 
rich  merchant,  when  he  had  drunk  just  to  the  point  of  good 
nature — when  the  indulger  in  strong  drink  feels  like  hugging  * 
everybody  and  "  all  the  rest  of  mankind," — to  get  his  consent 
for  him  to  marry  his  ugly  daughter.  It  was  a  marriage  of 
convenience,  the  obligations  of  which  he  intended  to  keep 
just  as  many  other  such  obligations  are  kept  in  this  city.  All 
this  ran  through  his  mind  upon  the  electric  telegraph  of  the 
brain.  Flash  after  flash  it  went  through,  and  then  came  the 
heavy  thunderbolt.  He  could  have  endured  all  the  rest ;  he 
could  not  endure  that  his  son  should  marry  a  sewing  girl. 
Why?  His  father  was  a  tailor,  and  he  married  a  tailor's 
daughter,  and  he-  hated  everything  that  could  remind  him 
of  his  own  needle-and-thread  origin.  He  hated  her  too,  be 
cause  she  was  so  much  more  lovely  than  his  own  daughters. 


1CS  HOT     CORN. 

For  five  minutes  he  sat  with  the  letter  in  liis  hand,  glaring 
at  that,  then  at  his  wife  and  Matilda  with  a  look  of  sorrow ; 
then  at  Elsie  and  her  half-drunken  husband,  with  contempt ; 
then  his  eye  came  back  with  a  fixidity  of  hatred  upon  Walter 
and  Athalia. 

At  length  Walter  ventured  to  break  the  awful  silence. 
-    "Father." 

"Don't  call  me  father  again.  I  disown  you,  you  poor 
milliner's  apprentice.  Beggar !  Don't  speak  to  me." 

Walter  paid  no  heed  to  the  order,  but  said  mildly,  "is  the 
Matilda  lost." 

"  That  is  my  business.     Leave  the  room." 

His  sisters  took  up  the  cue. 

"Yes,  you  had  better  go  now.  Go,  and  set  up  shop. 
You  can  carry  home  dresses  for  your  wife." 

He  came  to  that  afterwards.  Then  Elsie's  husband  put  in 
a  word  of  insult. 

"  I  say,  Walter,  it  strikes  me,  that  is  rather  a  costly  topsail 
for  a  beggar's  wife.  I  hope  she  gets  her  bonnets  in  an  honest 
way.  Who  pays  the  milliners'  billy?" 

Walter  raised  his  cane  to  strike  the  villain  that  could 
utter  such  a  vile  insinuation  upon  the  character  of  a  virtuous 
girl,  and  would  have  paid  all  his  tailors'  bills  at  one  blow,  but 
Athalia  sprung  upon  his  arm,  and  held  it  down.  His  father 
either  thought,  or  pretended  to  think,  that  he  raised  his  cane 
to  strike  him ;  probably  not  having  heard  the  remark  of 
Wendall,  and  thinking  only  of  his  own  wrongs.  He  seized  a 
bottle — a  weapon  that  has  knocked  down  its  thousands — and 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  169 

sprang  forward  to  strike  down  his  son.  His  arm  was  already 
up,  a  horrid  oath  was  struggling  in  his  throat,  his  face  turned 
black  from  the  effects  of  suffocation,  he  reeled,  the  bottle  fell 
to  the  floor  with  a  crash,  and  he  would  have  fallen  down 
among  the  broken  glass  and  spilt  wine,  but  for  Walter,  who 
caught  him  in  his  arms,  and  bore  him  from  the  room  towards 
his  chamber.  Athalia  rushed  out  for  a  physician.  It  was  too 
late ! — Death  had  already  said,  "  That  is  my  business." 

While  these  events  were  transpiring  in  the  country,  others 
of  great  import  to  the  rich  merchant's  family  were  enacting  in 
the  city.  Creditors  are  not  slow  when  they  see  misfortune 
fall  upon  one,  whom  they  were  ready  to  bow  to  yesterday,  to 
tread  upon  him  to-day.  Creditors  and  their  ministers, — the 
judges,  attorneys,  sheriffs, — are  all  ready  for  a  share  of  the 
pound  of  the  broken  merchant's  flesh.  Shylocks  still  live, 
and  Antonios  still  fail. 

That  was  a  sad  funeral  cortege  which  accompanied  the  dead 
bankrupt  back  to  the  city.  Sad,  not  so  much  from  sorrow, 
as  wounded  pride  and  fallen  greatness.  It  was  sad  to  see  the 
daughters  of  a  dead  father  absolutely  refuse  to  travel  upon 
the  same  train,  with  an  only  brother's  wife.  He  would  not 
go  without  her,  and  so  they  went  without  him.  It  was  night 
when  they  arrived.  They  had  despatched  John  in  advance, 
to  set  the  house  in  order,  and  meet  them  at  the  depot  with 
the  carriage  and  a  hearse.  The  latter  was  there,  the  former 
was  not,  and  they  had  to  submit  to  the  indignity  of  a  hired 
hack.  At  the  house,  all  was  dark.  What  could  it  mean  ? 

8 


170  HOT     COttN. 

"That  villain,  John,  has  got  drunk  again!"  That  was  the 
fact.  Who  taught  him  ?  He  was  only  following  the  long- 
studied  precepts  of  his  employer  and  lady,  the  young  ladies, 
the  young  gentlemen,  and  all  their  fashionable  associates,  in 
their  fondness  for  exhilarating  drink.  Why  should  he  not 
get  drunk  ?  , 

They  rung  the  bell  angrily.  It  was  a  long  time  before  it 
was  answered.  Then  a  heavy  footstep  came  down  stairs — 
not  up  from  the  servants'  room — and  approached  the  door,  and 
opened  the  inner  one,  so  that  he  could  see  through  the  blind 
who  demanded  admission.  A  sharp-faced,  keen,  black- 
eyed,  weasel-looking  man,  with  a  chamber-lamp  in  his  hand, 
and  one  of  Mr.  Morgan's  dressing  gowns  upon  his  back,  stood 
before  the  astonished  family  with  the  question  trembling  upon 
his  lips,  of  "  Vats  you  vant  here  ?" 

"  Want  ?  we  want  to  come  in,  to  be  sure,  why  don't  you 
open  the  .door  ?  Who  are  you  ?  What  are  you  doing 
here  ?" 

"  Veil,  you  can't  come  in.  I  is  the  sheriffs  man,  and  he 
has  put  me  keeper  here,  and  he  tells  me  not  to  let  anybody 
in  without  his  order.  You  must  go  to  him.  Vat  you  vakes 
me  up  for  ?" 

And  he  closed  the  door  in  their  faces,  and  they  heard  his 
heavy  step  reverberating  through  the  long  hall,  and  up  the 
broad  stair-case,  as  he  went  back  to  his  lounge,  "  in  my  lady's 
chamber." 

There  were  heavy  hearts  upon  the  outside  of  that  door. 
The  men  had  brought  the  coffin  up,  and  set  it  down  upon  the 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  171 

steps.  The  hearse  and  hired  hack  had  driven  off.  There  lay 
the  dead — he  never  would  say,  "  This  is  my  business,"  again 
— the  wine-maker  might  say  so.  Both  were  silent.  Neithei 
would  own  his  work.  In  the  vaults  of  that  house,  three 
thousand  dollars  worth — no,  cost — of  wines  were  stored. 
Fifty  thousand  dollars  worth  of  the  richest  rosewood  and 
mahogany  furniture,  china,  cut  glass,  and  silver  ware,  stood 
idle,  while  its  late  possessor  lay  in  his  coffin  upon  the  threshold, 
with  his  family  standing  around,  vainly  asking  permission  to 
rest  the  body  of  the  dead  owner  one  night,  in  its  journey  to  the 
tomb.  What  should  they  do  ?  Walter,  if  he  had  been  there, 
could  have  directed  what  to  do.  He  was  not.  Then  he  was 
cursed  in  thought,  if  not  word,  because  he  was  not  there. 

"It  is  all  his  fault,"  said  Elsie;  "it  was  his  abominable 
marriage  that  killed  father." 

Where  was  her  husband  ?  She  looked  around  for  him. 
He  had  slipped  away  "  to  get  a  drink."  What  a  brute,  she 
thought.  So  he  was.  That  is  what  going  to  "  get  a  drink  " 
makes  of  a  man. 

"  We  must  go  to  Mr.  Grundy's,"  said  the  widow. 

IIow?  The  hearse  and  hack  were  gone,  and  could  not 
be  got  back  in  an  hour.  A  passing  cart  was  called,  and  the 
coffin  of  the  millionaire  placed  upon  it,  and  the  family 
followed,  to  knock  at  the  door  of  a '  neighbor's  house,  with 
the  same  results — to  be  answered  by  another  sheriff's  officer, 
but  who,  by  chance,  happening  to  be  an  American,  and  pos 
sessed  of  common  sense  enough  to  know  that  the  dead  would 
not  steal,  and  those  who  attended  upon  hir\  would  not  be 


172  HOT    CORN. 

likely  to  do  so,  he  opened  the  door,  lit  the  gas,  called  up  one 
or  two  of  the  servants  still  left  in  the  house,  and  did  a  few 
other  things  that  natural  humanity  dictates  upon  such  an 
occasion.  An  hour  after,  the  Grundys  themselves  arrived,  to 
find  their  home  in  the  hands  of  a  "  keeper,"  who  had  let  in 
the  Morgans  by  courtesy,  and  now  admitted  them  as  mourn* 
ing  friends  of  the  family. 

Here,  I  draw  the  curtain.  You  have  already  seen  the  ter 
mination  of  a  man  who  could  leave  his  young  wife  and  her 
dead  father  standing  in  the  street,  to  go  and  "  get  a  drink." 
It  was  him  that  died  in  the  rat  hole,  in  Cow  Bay.  It  was 
Elsie  that  told  how  he  died,  how  she  gave  birth  to  a  child  by 
the  side  of  her  dead  husband,  and  how  the  rats  sucked  up  the 
life  blood  of  that  child. 

You  have  seen  Matilda,  before.  Turn  back  to  a  picture,  in 
Chapter  V.,  and  look  at  her  upon  her  wedding-day.  It  is 
needless  for  me  to  go  with  you  along  the  beaten  path  of  her 
career,  down,  down,  down,  from  ball-room  to  bar-room  ;  from 

house  of "  a  place  to  meet  a  friend " — to  a  house  of 

"  ladies'  boarding-house " — to  a  house  of  common 

resort — the  abode  of  wretchedness,  woe,  sin,  degradation, 
disease,  and  "  painted  sepulchres  " — from  that  to  a  low  room, 
with  "  my  man,"  and,  finally,  to  fill  the  pi  iture  in  the  Two 
penny  Marriage. 

Let  the  curtain  fall — the  dead  rest  in  peace. 

Watch  the  living. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW     YORK.  173 


CHAPTER     X. 

ATHALIA,     THE      SEWING     GIRL. 

"It  is  their  husbands'  fault,  if  wives  do  fall." 

••  The  weakest  goes  to  the  wall." 

WALTER  came  down  on  the  train  with  the  Grundys.  They 
urged  him  to  "  abandon  his  folly,  and  go  home  with  them." 
They  little  thought  they  had  no  home  to  go  to  themselves. 
He  said,  no ;  she  was  his  wife,  and  he  never  would  leave  her. 
He  thought  so  then.  If  he  had  left  the  bottle,  he  never 
would. 

"  Where  shall  we  go,  Athalia  ?" 

"  Come  with  me ;  I  have  a  home." 

So  he  went  to  her  little  room  in  Broome  street.  The  door 
was  fast,  and  the  room  dark.  She  rapped,  and  was  soon 
answered  by  Jeannette's  voice : 

"  Who  is  there  2" 

"It  is  me." 

What  a  world  of  meaning  is  in  those  three  little  words. 
How  the  memory  of  many  a  wife  will  wander  back  into  otber 
days,  when  she  heard  a  midnight  rap,  and  putting  her  head 
out  of  the  chamber  window,  where  she  had  been  "  making  a 
frock  and  rocking  the  cradle  "  all  the  early  part  of  the  night ; 


174  1IOT     CORN. 

and  how  her  heart  palpitates  at  the  answer  to  her  half  spoken, 
half  whispered  question,  "  Who  is  there  ?" 

,"It  is  me,"  comes  up  to  her  ready  ear  in  the  open  window. 
Down  goes  the  sash,  for  the  wind  might  blow  on  "  the  baby  ;" 
they  "have  got  a  baby."  In  a  minute,  oh  half  that  time, 
"  me  "  sees  'lie  'i  ^ht  through  the  key-hole,  and  hears  a  little 
step  running  down  staii  *.  It  stops  an  instant  to  set  the  lamp 
on  the  table.  What  for  ?  She  could  hold  it  in  one  hand, 
while  she  ub'-ocked  the  door  with  the  other.  Yes,  but  when 
the  door  is  open  she  will  have  work  for  both  hands — both 
arms  will  be  around  the  neck  of  somebody. 

"  Heigho,  for  somebody !"  I  wish  every  loving  heart  had 
somebody  ;  somebody  to  say,  "  It  is  me." 

"  Wait  a  minute." 

A  little  light  flashed  through  the  key-hole,  then  the  bolt 
went  back  with  a  click,  then  the  door  opened,  a  night-cap  and 
white  gown,  a  pair  of  blue  eyes,  and  some  pale  red  curls,  were 
seen  a  moment,  and  then  a  very  light  scream,  and  Athalia 
and  Walter  were  in  the  dark  again.  The  door  was  closed  in 
their  faces.  Was  she,  too,  shut  out  from  her  home  ? 

"Open  the  door,  Jeannette.  Never  mind  your  night 
gown." 

"  Oh,  I  cannot ;  indeed  I  cannot.  That  is  not  all.  Charles 
is  here." 

Charles  there,  at  that  time  of  night,  and  she  in  her  night 
gown  !  What  can  it  mean  ? 

"  Jeannette,  what  does  it  mean  ?" 

"  Now,  don't  go  to  being  angry  with  me,  Athalia."     And 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  175 

she  opened  the  door  a  little  way,  and  looked  out.  She  had 
slipped  on  a  wrapper,  and  slipped  off  the  night-cap.  What  is 
there  in  a  night-cap,  or  night-gown,  that  a  lady  should  be 
ashamed  to  be  seen  in  it  ? 

"  What  does  it  mean,  Jeannette  ?" 

"  Oh,  now,  don't  go  to  being  angry,  Athalia,  don't.  Indeed 
I  could  not  help  it,  I  was  so  lonesome  after  you  went  away — 
only  think  of  staying  here  all  alone." 

"Shame  on  you,  Jeannette.  And  so  because  you  were 
lonesome,  you  have  taken  cousin  Charles  to  sleep  with  you." 

"  Yes ;  why  not  ?" 

"  Why  not !  why,  Jeannette  ?" 

Why,  Athalia,  we  are  married.     You  don't  think  I  would 
do  it  if  we  were  not,  do  you  ?" 

"  Married  !  ha,  ha,  ha !  Come  in  Walter,  you  can  come  in 
now.  We  are  all  married  folks  together.  Ha,  ha,  ha !" 

How  her  laugh  did  ring.     She  was  anything  but  angry. 

"  Why,  Athalia,  you  are  only  joking." 

"  No.     I  am  in  sober  earnest." 

How  Jeannette  did  laugh,  and  hug,  and  kiss  Athalia ;  and 
then  she  ran  to  the  bed,  and  there  was  a  "  kiss  in  the  dark." 

"  Come,  Charley,  get  up  and  see  the  bride.  Come,  we  are 
all  married  folks  together." 

"  Oh,  Jeannette,  we  must  not  carry  on  so  with  Walter  now." 

"  Why  not  ?  Are  we  not  all  married  ?  If  we  cannot  carry 
on  a  little  now,  I  don't  know  when  we  should." 

"Yes,  but— " 

"What?" 


1 76  HOT  .  CORN. 

"  Walter's  father  is  dead." 

"Oh,  dear!  don't  say  that." 

"  I  must ;  it  is  true.  And  Walter  must  stay  here  to-night ; 
how  shall  we  fix  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  is  very  easy.  There  are  two  matrasses  on  the 
bedstead ;  we  will  lay  one  down  here — the  bolster  will  do  for 
pillows — there  are  some  nice  clean  sheets,  and  a  spread.  We 
will  just  take  that  side  curtain  and  turn  it  round,  and  pin  it 
to  the  window  curtain,  and  then  you  see  how  easy  it  will  be 
to  have  two  beds  and  two  bed-rooms.  You  and  I  will  sleep 
on  the  floor,  and  Charles  and  Walter  shall  sleep  on  the  bed." 

ISTo;  that  would  never  do.  Charles  and  Walter  would 
both  sleep  on  the  floor,  and  their  wives  should  sleep  where 
they  always  had,  together  on  the  bed. 

That  the  girls  would  not  listen  to.  They  were  their  guests, 
and  they  must  sleep  on  the  bedstead — that  was  the  state  bed 
— the  bed  of  honor — Walter  had  never  slept  on  the  floor  in 
his  life.  Then  the  men  put  in  their  argument,  and  thus  the 
question  stood,  until  it  seemed  likely  that  both  beds  would  re 
main  unoccupied.  Finally,  it  was  settled  by  "  compromise." 
Charley  whispered  Jeannette,  and  Jeannette  answered  aloud, 
;  "Why  not?  So  we  will.  Husbands  and  wives  should 
sleep  together.  Always  together.  What  business  has  a  man 
sleeping  with  anybody  else?" — with  another  woman  she 
thought. 

So  it  was  settled  how  they  should  sleep.  Then  there 
was  another  contention  where,  that  seemed  likely  to  be  as 
interminable  as  the  first.  Finally,  Athalia  settled  it.  She 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  177 

took  Walter  by  the  arm  and  said,  "  Come,"  leaving  Jeannetto 
and  Charley  with  the  light,  "  because  they  were  married  longer 
and  were  more  used  to  it." 

Walter  was  soon  asleep.  Athalia  lay  listening  to  a  low 
conversation  between  Charles  and  Jeannette,  in  which  sho 
caught,  now  and  then,  a  word.  "  The  West — new  country — 
log  cabin — little  farm— cows,  and  pigs,  and  chickens — and  a 
baby  " — she  thought  that — and  she  thought  how  happy  they 
will  be,  and  how  much  better  off  than  here  in  the  city.  So 
she  was  not  at  all  surprised  when  Jeannette  told  her,  in  the 
morning,  what  they  had  concluded  to  do.  In  three  days 
they  did  it. 

When  I  was  in  their  little  cabin,  and  heard  from  the  lips  of 
Jeannette  several  things  that  I  should  not  have  known  other 
wise,  I  found  that  they  had  realized  all  their  hopes,  for  they 
had  not  built  them  high.  And  when  she  found  that  I  knew 
Athalia,  how  she  did  hang  upon  -my  arm,  and  insist  that  I 
should  stay  all  night,  and  sleep  in  the  little  bed-room  where 
the  rose-bush  I  had  so  much  admired,  everhung  the  window, 
and  tell  her  the  story,  how  she  got  along,  and  what  became 
of  her,  and  all  about  it. 

Shall  I  begin  at  the  beginning,  or  in  the  middle,  or  at  the 
end? 

"  Oh,  at  the  beginning,  to  be  sure.  Where  is  she  now ! 
Is  she  alive  ?" 

That  is  it;  you  are  a  true  woman.  You  tell  me  to  begin 
at  the  beginning,  and  then  the  very  first  question  you  ask  is 
about  the  end.  I  see  you  are  impatient,  and  so  I  will  gratify 

8* 


178  HOT     CORN. 

you.  I  will  begin  at  the  beginning  of  the  end,  and  finish  in 
the  middle.  Athalia,  poor  girl,  she  is — 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that— not  dead !" 

No,  no ;  she  is  alive  and  very  well,  and  almost  as  pretty 
as  ever.  She  is  a  widow,  and  lives  in  New  York,  and  keeps 
a  hoarding  house,  and  is  making  a  comfortable  living. 

"  A  widow !  why,  where  is  her  husband  ?" 

Why,  where  should  he  be  ?  if  she  is  a  widow,  he  must  be 
either  dead  or  in  California ;  it  is  about  all  the  same  in  New 
York. 

"What  did  he  die  of?" 

The  same  disease  that  kills  nine-tenths  of  his  class — 
mm  ! 

"  Oh,  dear,  and  he  such  a  fine  young  man.  I  would  have 
married  him  myself,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Charley.  Well,  I 
have  one  great  blessing ;  if  Charles  is  not  so  rich  as  Walter, 
he  is  as  sober  &s  a  judge.  Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  he  is 
almost  one  ;  he  is  Justice  of  the  Peace.  But  do  tell  me,  did 
Walter  leave  her  rich  ?  The  Morgans  were  very  wealthy." 

Ah,  I  see  now ;  Athalia  never  told  of  their  failure,  and  how 
all  their  wealth  vanished  like  morning  dew ;  that  all  those 
five  dollar  carpets,  thousand  dollar  mirrors,  and  single  chairs 
that  cost  more  than  all  your  neat  furniture,  were  sold  under 
the  hammer  to  pay  debts ;  and  that  Walter  had  not  a  cent  in 
the  world,  and  that  he  lived  a  long  time  upon  the  money 
which  she  earned,  with, 

"  '  Work,  work,  work. 
From  weary  chime  to  chime,' 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK  179 


Through  many  a  day  and  many  a  night, 
'  As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ;' 

until  she  sighed  and  sung : 

"  l  Oh,  for  only  one  short  hour, 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 
And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal.'  " 

"  And  did  Walter  do  nothing  ?" 

What  could  he  do?  He  knew  nothing — had  never 
learned  to  do  anything ;  besides  that,  how  could  he  take  to 
any  occupation,  when  he  had  always  been  above  work,  and 
free  from  want.  If  his  father  had  put  him  into  his  counting- 
room  with  old  Precision,  he  might  have  been  a  good  book 
keeper,  and  could  now  have  had  employment  upon  a  salary. 
As  it  was,  he  was  a  useless,  worthless  member  of  society. 
His  father  had  been  asked,  if  he  did  not  think  of  putting 
Walter  into  some  situation  where  he  would  learn  to  help  him 
self,  but  his  answer  was,  "  that  is  my  business ;"  and  there 
ended  the  matter. 

Finally,  after  some  months  of  idleness,  supported  by  his 
young  wife's  toil,  a  few  friends  concluded  to  advance  him  a 
.thousand  dollars,  to  go  South,  where,  as  he  thought,  he  could 
make  a  fortune ;  and  if  he  got  away  where  nobody  knew  him, 
he  could  go  into  some  sort  of  business.  Athalia  went  with 
him.  They  landed  at  Savannah,  put  up  at  the  best  hotel, 
four  dollars  a  day,  and  wine  and  cigars,  upon  an  average,  six 
more.  It  was  easy  to  calculate  just  how  long  a  thousand 


180  HOT     CORN. 

dollars  would  last  at  that  business.  Athalia  pined  in  idle 
ness  ;  of  course,  a  young  "Northern  merchant's  "  wife  could 
not  use  her  needle  in  a  city  where  a  lady,  of  any  pretensions 
to  fashion,  would  not  help  herself  to  a  glass  of  water  if  the 
pitcher  stood  at  her  eldow.  A  slave,  always  ready  at  her 
bidding,  must  be  called  to  wait  upon  "  young  missus." 

It  did  not  take  Walter  long  to  form  new  acquaintances ; 
besides,  he  met  with  several  of  his  old  college  chums,  and  so 
it  was  a  day  here  and  a  night  there,  upon  this  plantation  and 
that ;  of  course,  his  pretty  wife  was  always  welcome,  so  long 
as  nobody  knew  that  she  was  a  sewing  girl.  That  secret 
leaked  out  at  last,  and  then — 

"  What  then  ?" 

Then  those  who  had  courted  and  fawned  around  the  rich 
merchant's  wife,  and  thought  she  was  the  prettiest  and  best 
bred  woman,  and  most  intelligent,  they  had  ever  met  with, 
and  the  most  modest  and  most  amiable — 

"  So  she  was.     I  never  saw  her  equal." 

Nor  they  either — but  then  she  was  a  sewing  girl,  when  he 
married  her — perhaps  never  was  married.  That  was  finally 
annexed  by  envious,  malicious,  jealous  rivals,  who  felt  her 
superiority,  and  how  much  more  she  was  admired  by  the 
gentlemen  than  they  were. 

All  this  came  at  last,  by  a  true  friend — a  slave — to  Athalia's 
ear.  She  had  felt  the  chilling  change,  and,  finally,  obtained 
the  secret  from  her  yellow  chambermaid.  Her  mind  was 
instantly  made  up.  That  night  she  packed  her  trunk ;  Walter, 
aa  usual,  was  out  "  attending  to  business,"  such  as  young  men 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  181 

often  attend  to  at  midnight  in  some  Private  back  room,  sitting 
around  a  table,  counting  spots  upon  little  bits  of  pasteboard. 

The  steamboat  would  leave  the  next  morning  for  Charles 
ton.  She  waited  in  vain  for  Walter,  and  then  wrote  a  long 
letter,  detailing  all  the  facts  and  giving  ample  reasons  for  her 
course)  and  begging  him  to  abandon  his ;  to  settle  up  whal 
matters  he  had  as  soon  as  possible  and  follow  her.  Then  she 
laid  down  for  a  short  nap,  with  orders  to  Mary  to  wake  her  if 
Mr.  Morgan  came  in,  and  if  not,  to  call  her  in  time  for  the 
boat  at  any  rate,  and  then  to  give  him  the  letter.  It  was  an 
impulsive  step,  but  that  was  her  nature. 

"  So  it  was.  She  always  thought  and  acted  at  the  same 
moment ;  and  almost  always  right." 

In  one  week  she  was  back  in  her  old  room,  which  she  had 
let  temporarily  during  her  absence.  In  one  week  more  she 
had  an  additional  room  and  a  few  girls  at  work  for  her  at 
dress-making.  She  issued  her  little  card,  sent  it  around  to 
old  customers,  and  got  some  new  ones,  and  all  the  work 
that  she  could  do. 

In  three  months  she  had  ceased  to  pay  rent  for  furniture ; 
she  had  bought  and  paid  for  it,  and  was  making  weekly 
deposits  of  little  sums  in  the  savings  bank.  Then  her  hus 
band  came  back.  Where  his  thousand  dollars  had  gone  you 
may  judge,  when  I  tell  you  that  Athalia  had  to  go  and  redeem 
his  trunk,  retained  on  board  a  brig  for  his  passage.  He  could 
not  go  himself  for  it,  he  was  sick ;  with  what  complaint  you 
may  easily  judge ;  I  shall  not  tell  you,  as  he  did  not  tell  his 
wife,  until  she  too  was  sick,  and  in  her  ignorance,  neglected 


182  HOT    CORN. 

to  call  a  physician,  until  so  bad  that  she  was  laid  up  from 
work,  and  of  course  lost  custom.  How  her  little  store 
melted  under  this  accumulation  of  expense!  Finally,  they 
got  agoing  again,  and  she  persuaded  him  to  get  into  some 
kind  of  employment.  What  could  he  do?  There  was  but 
one  "  genteel " — mark  the  word — business  that  he  knew  of. 
He  became  a  bar  keeper.  He  had  one  regular  customer. 
It  was  Walter  Morgan  ! 

Down  hill  is  an  easy  road.     He  took  it. 

Athalia  soon  found  some  of  her  best  customers  dropping 
off. 

"  What  was  the  cause  ?" 

There  were  two.  In  the  first  place  Walter  had  been  the 
means  of  getting  a  notorious  courtezan  to  give  her  custom  to 
his  wife.  He  brought  her  there  and  introduced  her  as  Mrs. 
Layton,  formerly  of  South  Carolina,  now  living  with  her 
nieces  and  daughter  in  this  city.  She  used  to  come  often, 
always  in  her  carriage,  with  liveried  servants. 

Once  Athalia  rode  home  with  her  to  fit  -a  dress  to  "  a  sick 
young  lady,  that  boarded  with  her."  She  found  that  Mrs. 
Layton  lived  in  an  elegant  four  story  house,  near  a  church  and 
in  a  very  respectable  neighborhood  in  a  fashionable  street. 

Her  rooms  were  furnished  with  a  degree  of  splendor  almost 
equal  to  the  Morgans.  Little  did  she  suspect  the  character 
of  the  house,  particularly  as  her  husband  had  introduced  her 
there. 

But  there  was  anothei  cause  why  she  lost  her  best  custo- 
tomers.  In  a  fashionable  soiree,  to  which  Walter  still  found 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  183 

his  way  occasionally,  when  questioned  by  a  score  of  his  old 
acquaintances,  with  whom  he  used  to  flirt,  and  every  one  of 
whom  were  envious  and  jealous  of  Athalia,  they  rallied  Liin 
most  unmercifully  upon  his  marriage  with  a  sewing  girl,  and 
then  the  base  cowardly  wretch — rum  makes  such  of  gen 
tlemen — declared  upon  his  honor  that  he  was  not  married. 
It  was  only  a  marriage  of  convenience. 

"A  mistress — a  mistress — oh  !  that  alters  the  case.  And 
only  to  think  we  have  been  getting  the  shameless  thing  to 
make  our  common  dresses.  Well,  I  never  will  go  near  her 
again." 

"  Nor  I.     Nor  I.     Nor  I." 

"  And  that  accounts  for  what  I  heard  the  other  day,  that 
she  was  seen  riding  home  with  that  Madame  Layton,  who 
kfteps  a  house  of  assignation  in •  street." 

"  How  did  she  know  that  she  kept  such  a  house  !" 

It  was  Matilda  Morgan,  that  said  it.     She  had  been  there. 

The  train  once  lighted,  which  fires  the  dry  prairie,  how*it 
sweeps  on  before  the  wind.  It  little  regards  who  stand  in 
the  way.  As  little  regards  the  slanderer,  and  as  rapidly 
spreads  the  fire  of  a  scandalous  tongue,  devouring  its  victims 
with  a  consuming  fire. 

Althalia  was  a  victim.  The  man  who  should  have  been 
her  shield,  had  himself  thrown  the  first  dart.  It  had  been 
more  envenomed  by  a  pretended  female  friend,  who  had 
told  her  all  that  he  said.  She  could  have  forgiven  him  every 
thing  else,  she  would  not  forgive  him  that.  Things  now 
looked  dark.  She  was  obliged  to  look  for  work  among  a 


184 


HOT     CORN. 


class  of  customers  where  nothing  but  the  direst  necessitj 
would  have  led  her.  Her  husband  had  tended  bar,  until  his 
employer  found  that  he  drank  up  all  the  profits.  Now  he 
was  drinking  up  the  hard  earnings  of  his  wife.  Then  he 
began  to  stay  out  nights.  Where,  she  could  only  guess.  One 
day  she  sent  him  to  pay  the  rent.  It  was  the  last  money  she 
had.  About  a  week  after,  the  landlord  called  for  it.  He  had 
not  seen  Walter,  had  not  been  paid,  and  was  very  sorry  for 
her,  but  he  must  have  the  rent. 

"  Would  he  wait  a  few  days  ?  she  hoped  her  husband  would 
pay  it." 

There  was  a  curl  of  derision  upon  his  lip.  What  could  it 
mean? 

"  Fact  is,  Mrs.  Morgan,  or  Miss  Lovetree,  or  whatever  your 
name  is,  I  let  the  premises  to  you,  and  look  to  you  for  the 

rent.     I  shall  not  run  after  such  a  miserable  drunken • 

as  Walter  Morgan." 

She  did  not  drop  dead  under  this  heavy  blow ;  she  simply 
said,  "  you  shall  have  your  rent  to-morrow." 

"  Very  well  then ;  and  you  may  as  well  look  for  a  new  place 
too,  in  the  course  of  the  week." 

"  I  intend  to,"  was  her  calm  reply. 

When  he  was  gone,  she  slipt  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and 
thought  she  would  take  her  watch  and  ear-rings,  and  a  few 
little  things,  where  her  husband  had  twice  taken  them  before, 
and  whence  she  had  redeemed  them,  after  he  had  spent  the 
money ;  for  money  he  would  have,  and  if  she  did  not  give  it 
to  him,  he  would  steal  her  things  and  pawn  them.  He  had 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  185 

done  so  now.  All  was  gone,  even  her  large  Bible,  the  present 
of  her  dying  mother.  Her  only  alternative  was  to  get  a 
Jew  to  come  and  look  at  the  furniture,  and  advance  enough  to 
pay  the  rent.  On  the  way  she  thought  she  would  take  a 
dress  home,  and  get  the  money  for  that.  She  knew  it  was 
going  to  a  house  of  bad  repute ;  she  had  been  obliged  to  work 
for  such,  and  on  several  occasions  Walter  had  carried  them 
home.  It  was  a  sort  of  perquisite  with  him  to  get  the  pay  for 
such.  She  looked  for  the  dress,  that  too  was  gone.  There  was 
another  to  go  to  the  same  house,  which  she  could  finish  in 
about  an  hour.  It  was  her  only  resource  for  the  necessities 
of  to-morrow.  At  nine  o'clock  she  took  it  upon  her  arm  and 
went  out,  and  with  trembling  step,  up  to  the  door  of  a  mag 
nificent  house,  only  one  block  from  Broadway. 

As  the  door  opened  for  her,  half-a-dozen  "  up  town  bloods," 
came  out 

"  I  say,"  said  one  of  them,  before  he  was  out  of  her  hearing, 
"  I  say,  Fied,  that  is  Walt.  Morgan's  gal,  let  us  go  back  and 
see  the  fun." 

The  voice  was  familiar,  though  the  bloated  countenance  of 
the  roue  was  not.  She  had  heard  it  before.  It  was  George 
Wendall. 

"  See  the  fun  " — what  could  it  mean  ?  She  felt  like  any 
thing  but  fun.  Is  it  fun  for  a  man  to  see  a  woman's  heart 
broken  ? 

They  went  on,  Fred  remarking,  "  she  is  dev'lish  pretty ; 
curse  me  if  I  don't  try  my  hand  there.  I  will  walk  into  her 
affections." 


186  HOT     CORN. 

Such  is  the  opinion  of  the  roue" — that  the  door  of  woman's 
affections  is  always  open  for  every  self-conceited  puppy  to 
walk  in. 

Her  heart  was  in  her  throat.  She  choked  it  down,  and 
went  in  and  inquired  for  Miss  Nannette,  and  was  shown  up 
to  her  room.  A  gentleman  was  there,  whom  Nannette  intro 
duced  as  Mr.  Smith,  from  the  South. 

He  might  be  from  the  South,  but  Athalia  knew  him  to  be 
a  married  man,  with  a  sweet  young  wife  and  two  children,  in 
this  city. 

The  dress  was  to  be  tried  on,  and  Nannette  began  to  strip 
off  without  a  blush.  Athalia  did  blush,  and  did  object,  and 
would  not  stay. 

"  Well,  then,  George,  go  down  a  few  minutes  to  the  parlor, 
that  is  a  good  soul,  she  is  so  fastidious." 

No,  he  did  not  want,to  be  seen  there ;  he  would  go  home. 

"  Well,  then,  give  me  some  money  to  pay  for  making  this 
dress.  You  gave  me  the  stuff,  you  might  as  well  go  the 
whole  figure." 

He  handed  her  a  ten  dollar  bill ;  she  handed  it  to  Athalia, 
— the  dress  was  only  five — remarking  : 

"  Give  him  the  change ;  I  won't  take  but  a  five  out  of  it 
this  time." 

Athalia  had  no  change.  She  looked  at  him,  to  be  certain 
of  her  man,  and  remarked : 

"  No ;  I  will  keep  the  whole,  and  credit  him  the  balance, 
on  account  of  seven  dollars  he  has  owed  me  these  two  months, 
for  work  for  his  wife." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORX.  187 

He  stammered  something  about  mistake — not  him — cursed 
blunder — and  left  the  room. 

The  dress  fitted  beautifully,  and  Athalia  felt  the  soothing 
influence  of  praise  for  her  work,  and  would  have  left  happier 
than  she  came,  but  just  then  her  ear  caught  a  voice  in  the 
next  rf  om.  She  listened.  A  woman  replied  : 

"  Yes,  if  you  have  brought  any  money.     I  have  made  up 

my  mind  that  you  shall  not  stay  in  this  room  another  night 

» 
without  you  give  me  more  money." 

"  Oh,  Josephine,  I  have  got  something  better  than  money 
for  you.  Look  here." 

"  Oh !  you  are  a  dear  good  fellow,  after  all.  What  a  pretty 
watch,  and  what  a  dear  little  locket.  That  will  do.  Now 
you  may  stay  all  night,  and  to-morrow  we  will  go  down  to 
Coney  Island  again,  and  have  a  good  time.  I'll  pass  for  your 
wife,  you  know." 

There  was  a  door  opening  out  of  Nannette's  room  into  a 
bath-room,  and  out  of  that,  a  window  into  the  room  where 
the  voices  came  from. 

It  was  but  a  thought ;  thoughts  are  quick,  and  so  were  her's, 
and  the  step  that  took  her  up  on  a  chair,  and  her  hand  up 
to  the  curtain,  which  was  the  only  thing  preventing  her  from 
seeing  who  owned  that  voice. 

She  looked.  What  a  sight  for  a  wife !  She  saw,  what  she 
knew  before,  but  would  be  doubly  sure,  that  the  voice  was  her 
husband's.  She  knew  that — she  knew  that  he  was  giving 
her  watch,  and  the  locket  which  contained  the  donor's  like 
ness,  that  of  a  dear  brother  lost  at  sea  — a.  treasure  that  she 


188  HOT   CORN. 

would  not  part  with  sooner  than  her  own  heart — to  a  woman 
to  whom  he  had  before  given  money — money  that  came,  drop 
by  drop,  distilled  from  her  heart's  blood,  through  the  alembic 
of  her  needle  ;  and  she  would  see — what  woman  would  not — 
what  wife  could  resist  the  opportunity  of  seeing  ? — she  could 
not — what  the  woman  looked  like,  who  could  displace  her 
in  her  husband's  affections.  The  first  sight  she  caught  was 
her  Bible  upon  the  table. 

"  What  could  she  want  of  that  ?" 

She  was  sometimes  religious — a  great  many  of  them  are, 
and  read  the  Bible  to  find  some  text  to  justify  their  own 
course.  They  are  also  visited  by  clergymen,  who  prefer 
those  of  "  a  religious  turn  of  mind."  Then  this  Bible  was 
elegantly  bound,  and  very  valuable.  Then  she  saw  her  watch 
in  the  hands  of  a  woman  with  ugly  red  hair,  with  dull, 
voluptuous  eyes,  thick  lips,  ugly  teeth,  a  little  snub  nose,  and 
a  gaunt  awkward  figure,  forming  altogether  one  of  the  ugliest 
looking  women,  Athalia  thought,  that  she  had  ever  seen. 
The  words  burst  involuntarily  from  her  lips : 

"  Oh,  how  ugly  !" 

"She  is  uglier  than  she  looks,"  said  Nannette.  "She  has 
ruined  more  men  than  any  other  woman  in  the  city.  She 
has  kicked  that  fool  out  half  a  dozen  times  because  he  did 
not  give  her  more  money.  I  should  not  wonder  now,  if  he 
has  stolen  his  wife's  watch  to  give  that  wretch." 

And  this  was  the  woman  that  Athalia  had  been  toiling 
for  her  husband  to  pamper.  Oh,  how  she  did  pray  to 
die! 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  180 

Nannette,  when  she  learned  the  facts,  was  furious.  She 
would  have  gone  in  and  torn  her  heart  out. 

She  said  she  never  did  have  anything  to  do  with  a  mar 
ried  man,  if  she  knew  it.  George  had  lied  to  her,  and  never 
should  see  her  but  once  again — once,  to  get  her  blessing. 

Athalia  was  calm.  She  sat  down  a  few  minutes,  to  recover 
from  this  last  stab  in  the  heart,  and  then  said  she  would  look 
once  more  and  then  go  home.  She  did  look,  and  saw  her 
husband  locked  in  the  arms  of  that  red-headed  fury.  Then 
she  went  home  ;  she  did  not  go  to  bed  ;  she  worked  all  night 
putting  her  things  in  order.  Next  day,  at  ten  o'clock,  a  red 
flag  was  fluttering  at  her  window,  and  while  Walter  and  his 
mistress  were  going  down  the  Bay,  her  furniture  was  "  going, 
going,  gone,"  to  the  highest  bidder. 

At  sundown  she  was  homeless,  friendless,  worse  than  hus- 
bandless,  alone,  in  the  streets  of  New  York  1 


190  HOT     CORN. 


CHAPTER  XI. 
LIFE  AT  THE  FIVE  POINTS. 

MADALINA,    THE     RAG-PICKER's    DAUGHTER. 

14  Youth  is  bought  more  oft,  than  begged  or  borrowed." 

Some  wounds  do  never  heal. 

ALTHOUGH  all  iny  scenes  are  connected,  and  bear  some 
relation  one  to  the  other,  yet  they  are  not  continuous.  Like 
the  Panorama  of  Niagara,  we  must  go  back,  cross  over,  look 
up,  look  down,  first  from  this  point  of  view,  then  from  that, 
to  see  all  the  scenes  of  that  wonder  of  wonders.  So  here, 
where  a  mighty  torrent  rushes  on,  sweeping  a  multitude  down 
the  great  cascade,  we  have  to  look  at  scene  after  scene,  before 
we  can  join  them  all  together  into  one  panoramic  view.  Our 
scenes,  too,  are  as  real  and  life-like  as  those.  Sometimes  a 
tree  here,  a  flower  there,  then  a  little  spray,  then  a  cloud,  or 
the  natural  color,  a  little  heightened  to  give  effect,  and  make 
the  picture  more  vivid ;  but  the  rocks  and  rushing  torrent,  the 
real  foundation  of  the  picture,  are  all  as  nature  made  them* 
So  it  is  with  my  present  panoramic  view  of  "Life  Scenes 
in  New  York." 

Again  I  shift  the  scene.     Still  you  will  find  characters  that 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  191 

you  have  met  before,  will  meet  again.     It  is  a  talc  of  sorrow, 
but  a  tale  of  truth. 

• 
A  little  girl  was  weeping  there, 

Pearl  drops  of  bitter  tears, 
And  hope  with  her  was  sleeping  whera 

She  spent  her  youthful  years  ; 
Her  useless  life  was  fleeing  fast, 

Her  only  school  the  street ; 
The  future,  gloomy  shadows  cast, 
Where  e'er  she  set  her  feet. 

Her  ev'ry  day  had  one  sad  end, 

Her  ev'ry  night  the  same ; 
Or  sick,  or  well,  she  had  no  friend, 

'Twere  worthy  of  that  name. 
A  mother  gave  this  child  her  birth, 

Or  else  she  had  not  been ; 
But  Judas  like  that  mother's  worth  — 

She  sold  her  child  to  sin  ! 

For  gold  she  gave  her  child  to  sin, 

For  gold  her  child  betray'd ; 
What  gold  would  you,  dear  mother,  win, 

Your  own  to  thus  degrade  ? 
What  gold  would  you  to  others  give, 

From  sin  such  others  save  ? 
Though  gold  is  good  to  those  who  live^ 

'Tis  useless  in  the  grave. 

Poor  Madalina  claims  a  tear, 
From  those  her  story  read 


192  HOT   CORIT. 

Pray  stop  and  pay  that  tribute  here, 

It  is  her  only  meed. 
Now  con  ter  story  careful  o'er, 

Her  life  was  one  of  grief, 
She  needs  not  now  your  pity  more — 

To  others  give  relief. 

I  suppose  there  are  some  who  will  turn  away  in  disgust 
from  the  double  title  of  this  chapter.  What,  they  will  say, 
can  "  Life  at  the  Five  Points  "  have  in  it  that  is  interesting  to 
me,  who  lounge  on  silk  brocatelle,  and  look  down  upon  beg 
gar  girls  and  rag-pickers — disgusting  objects — through  lace 
curtains  that  cost  more,  to  every  window,  than  would  furnish 
a  hundred  families  in  that  locality  with  better  furniture  than 
they  now  possess  ? 

No  doubt  you  will  turn  away  in  disgust  at  the  very  sight 
of  the  title  of  "  The  Rag-picker's  Daughter."  Yet  you  may 
find  something  in  the  character  of  "  Madalina,"  which  will 
make  you  love  the  name.  I  should  not  wonder,  in  some  of 
my  walks  through  the  city  in  future  years,  to  hear  that  pretty 
name  spoken  to  some  sweet  child,  yet  to  be  born  in  rose- 
perfumed  chamber. 

Then  pass  not  by  my  tale  of  one  so  lowly.  See  how  sweet 
is  a  cup  of  cold  water  to  the  dying. 

Read. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  door-keeper,  to  Mr.  Pease,  one  night,  "  little 
Madalina,  the  beggar  girl,  is  at  the  door,  crying  bitterly,  and 
says  she  wants  to  see  you." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  tired  missionary,  "  I  answered  hastily, 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  193 

perhaps  petulantly,  for  I  had  been  very  much  engaged  all 
day.  Tell  her  to  go  away,  I  cannot  see  her  to-night ;  it  is 
eleven  o'clock,  and  I  am  very  tired.  She  must  come  to-mor 
row." 

The  poor  fellow  turned  upon  his  heel  to  go  away,  but  as 
he  did  so,  the  glimpse  of  his  hand  and  motion  of  the  coat 
sleeve  across  his  eyes,  told  a  story. 

"  Tom,"  said  Mr.  P.,  "  Tom,  my  dear  boy,  what  is  the  mat 
ter  !" 

Tom  did  not  turn  round  as  he  had  been  taught,  and  usually 
did,  so  as  to  look  him  full  in  the  face  when  he  answered ;  in 
fact  he  did  not  answer  readily  ;  there  was  a  choking  sensation 
in  his  utterance  which  prevented  the  words  from  coming  forth 
distinctly. 

Now,  this  boy  had  been  but  a  short  time  in  "  the  Home," 
and  perhaps  a  more  squalid,  wretched,  drunken  boy,  cannot 
be  found  in  the  purlieus  of  the  Five  Points,  than  he  was  when 
he  was  almost  literally  picked  out  of  the  gutter,  as  he  had 
been  once  before  he  came  here  finally,  in  the  way  you  have 
already  seen.  Once  before,  he  had  actually  been  dragged  out 
of  the  filthiest  hole  in  Anthony  street,  brought  in,  washed  and 
dressed,  before  he  came  to,  so  as  to  be  conscious  of  the  change 
that  had  come  over  him.  Then  he  was  brought  back  again  to 
his  low  degradation,  by  just  such  wretches  and  ways  of  the 
wicked  as  were  brought  to  bear  upon  poor  Reagan,  and  will 
be  upon  many  others,  while  the  destroyer  is  permitted  to  walk 
abroad  like  a  pestilence  at  noon-day.  Now  this  outcast,  who 
had  cared  for  nothing  human,  not  even  himself,  stood  vainly 

I) 


19i  HOT     CORN. 

trying  to  choke  down  his  grief  for  the  sorrows  of  a  little  beg 
gar  girl. 

Were  the  reminiscences  of  one,  almost  as  low  down  in  the 
scale  of  humanity,  running  through  his  mind — one  who,  after 
having  been  herself  lifted  up,  had  exerted  an  influence  upon 
him  to  his  salvation  ? 

The  tired  missionary  forgot  his  fatigue. 

"  Tom,"  said  he,  springing  up,  "  I  will  go  and  see  what  is 
the  matter.  Who  is  this  Madalina  ?" 

"  She  is  an  Italian  rag-picker's  daughter,  sir — they  live  in 
Cow  Bay — I  used  to  lodge  with  them  sometimes.  That  is, 
the  mother  picks  rags,  and  the  father  goes  with  the  hand- 
organ  and  monkey." 

"  Ah,  that  is  where  the  little  tambourine  girl  came  from  that 
we  have  now  in  school  There  is  a  quarrel,  I  suppose,  and 
the  little  girl  has  come  for  me." 

Tom  went  down  stairs,  with  a  heart  as  light  as  his  step, 
"  which,"  said  Mr.  P.,  "  I  followed,  I  must  acknowledge,  rather 
heavily,  for  I  did  not  quite  relish  the  idea  of  being  wakened 
out  of  a  comfortable  evening  nap,  to  do  police  duty  in  Co\* 
Bay,  and  I  fear  there  might  not  have  been  quite  as  much 
suavity  in  my  tone  and  manner  towards  the  rag-picker's 
daughter,  as  we  ought  to  use  when  speaking  to  those  poor 
children,  for  I  recollect  the  words  were,  l  What  do  you  want  V 
instead  of,  *  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  child — come  tell  me, 
and  don't  cry  any  more.' " 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  a  beggar  girl.  I  want  to  be  like  my 
cousin  Juliana." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  ]05 

"  Juliana — Juliana.     I  don't  know  her." 

"  It  is  the  little  tambourine  girl,  sir,"  said  Tom. 

"  Oh,  I  see  now.  Juliana  is  your  cousin,  then.  Come  here 
Madalina  ;  let  me  look  at  you,  and  I  will  talk  about  it.  Did 
Juliana  tell  you  to  come  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  sii ;  she  has  told  me  a  good  many  times,  but  they 
would  not  let  me.  I  am  afraid  to  stay  there  to-night,  they 
are  drinking  and  fighting  so  bad." 

"  I  thought  so  ;  and  you  want  me  to  go  and  stop  them ;  is 
that  it  ?" 

"  No,  sir.     I  want  to  stay  here." 

"  Oh,  a  poor  little  girl  flying  for  fear  from  her  own  parents, 
because  they  are  drinking  and  fighting  so." 

He  drew  her  forward  into  the  light,  and  looked  upon  as  fine 
a  set  of  features  as  he  ever  saw.  Her  hair,  which,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  was  black  almost  as  the  raven's  wing,  and 
subsequently,  when  cleaned  of  dirt  and  its  accompaniments, 
became  almost  as  glossy,  overshadowed  a  pair  of  the  keenest, 
yet  mildest,  black  eyes  I  ever  met  with.  Her  skin  was  dark, 
partly  natural,  and  partly  the  effect  of  the  sun  upon  its 
unwashed,  unsheltered  surface.  Her  teeth,  oh  !  what  a  set  of 
teeth!  which,  she  afterward  told  me,  she  kept  clean  by  a 
habit  she  had  of  eating  charcoal.  She  was  about  twelve 
years  old,  slim  form,  rather  tall,  but  delicate  structure.  Her 
dress  consisted  of  a  dirty  cotton  frock,  reaching  a  little 
below  the  knees,  and  nothing  else.  Barefooted,  bareheaded, 
almost  naked,  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  of  a  cold  March  night, 
a  little  innocent  child,  wandering  through  the  streets  of  New 


196  HOT    CORN. 

York,  vainly  plying  the  words,  "  Please  give  me  a  penny,  sir," 
to  well-fed,  comfortably-dressed  men,  whose  feelings  have 
grown  callous  by  constantly  hearing  such  words  from  such 
objects,  to  whom  to  give  is  not  to  relieve,  but  rather  encour 
age  to  continue  in  the  pursuit  of  such  ill-gotten  means  of 
prolonging  life,  without  any  prospect  of  benefit  to  themselves 
or  their  fellow-creatures. 

"  Then  you  don't  want  to  beg,  Madalina  !  Why  not  ?" 
"  Because  people  push  me,  and  curse  me,  and  to-day  one 
man  kicked  me  right  here,  sir."  And  she  laid  her  hand  upon 
her  stomach,  and  a  little  groan  of  anguish  and  accusation 
against  the  unfeeling  monster  who  had  done  the  deed,  went 
to  the  recording  angel,  and  was  set  down  in  the  black  cata 
logue  of  rum-selling  crimes,  for  a  day  of  retribution  yet  to 
come. 

"  Kicked  you !     What  for  ?     Were  you  saucy  ?" 
"No,  sir;  I  am  never  saucy.     My  mother  says  if  I  am 
Wicy,  men  won't  give  me  anything.     I  must  be  very  quiet, 
and  not  talk  any,  nor -answer  any  questions." 
"  Then  how  came  he  to  kick  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir ;  I  did  not  say  a  word,  I  only  went  into 
one  of  those  nice  rooms  in  Broadway,  where  they  have  such 
beautiful  glass  bottles  and  tumblers,  and  looking-glasses,  and 
such  a  sight  of  all  sorts  of  liquor,  and  where  so  many  fine 
gentlemen  go  and  sit,  and  talk,  and  laugh,  and  drink,  and 
smoke ;  and  I  just  went  along  and  held  out  my  hand  to  the 
gentlemen,  when  one  of  them  told  me  to  open  my  mouth,  and 
shut  my  eyes,  and  hold  out  my  hand,  and  he  would  give  me 


LIFE     SCENES    IN     NEW    YORK.  197 

a  shilling.     Now  look  what  he  did — he  put  his  cigar  all 
burning  in  my  hand,  and  shut  it  up  and  held  it  there." 

Horrible  !  she  opened  her  hand,  and  showed  three  fingers 
and  a  palm  all  in  a  blister. 

"Oh,  sir,  that  is  nothing  to  what  another  one  did.  He 
put  a  great  nasty  chaw  of  tobacco  in  my  mouth,  and  then  I 
could  not  help  crying  ;  then  the  man  who  sells  the  liquor,  he 
ran  out  from  behind  the  counter,  and  how  he  did  swear,  and 
caught  me  by  the  hair,  and  pulled  me  down  on  the  floor,  and 
kicked  me  so  I  could  hardly  get  away.  But  he  told  me  if  I 
did  not  he  would  set  the  dogs  on  me  and  tear  me  to  pieces." 

"  What  did  you  go  into  such  a  place  for  ?" 

"  I  had  been  all  day  in  the  streets  and  only  got  three  pennies, 
and  I  wanted  to  go  home." 

"  Well,  why  did  you  not  go  2" 

"  My  mother  said  if  I  did  not  get  sixpence  to-day  she 
would  whip  me,  and  so  I  went  to  that  place.  I  did  not  think 
such  nice  dressed  gentleme*"  would  do  so.  What  if  they 
should  have  to  beg  some  day !  My  father  used  to  dress  as  fine 
as  they  when  he  kept  the  Cafe  de  VImperator" 

"  And  where  have  you  been  since  they  abused  you  so  ?" 

"I  crept  up  into  a  cart  in  Pearl  street;  I  was  so  sick, 
after  the  tobacco  and  the  kick,  for  it  was  very  hard." 

"  Could  you  not  get  home  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  Besides,  what  if  I  could,  and  my  mother  had 
been  drinking.  She  would  kick  me  again,  perhaps." 

"  What,  then,  are  you  going  to  do  to-night  ?  You  cannot 
sleep  in  the  street ;  it  is  too  cold." 


198  HOT     CORN. 

"  Won't  you  let  me  sleep  ?" 

"  With  your  cousin  Juliana  ?" 

"No,  sir,  not  that;  she  is  clean,  and  I — I  wish  I  was, 
Won't  you  let  me  sleep  on  the  floor?" 

"  You  shall  have  a  place  to  sleep  to-night ;  and  to-morrow, 
if  your  mother  is  willing,  you  shall  come  and  live  with  your 
cousin  Juliana,  and  be  dressed  as  she  is,  and  learn  to  sew ; 
and  when  you  get  big  enough" 

"  Her  mother  will  prostitute  her,  as  she  did  her  older  sister 
to  a  miserable  old  pimp  for  ten  dollars." 

"  Tom,  Tom,  what  is  that  ?" 

"  The  truth,  sir.  Have  I  ever  told  you  a  lie  since  I  have 
been  in  your  house  ?" 

"  Well,  well,  Tom,  take  Madalina  to  the  housekeeper,  and 
give  her  somewhere  to  sleep  to-night,  and  to-morrow  morning 
you  shall  go  to  her  mother  and  see  what  she  will  do." 

"  Lord,  sir,  I  must  go  to-night.  She  will  be  off"  with  her 
hook  and  basket,  poking  in  the  gutters  after  rags  before  the 
stars  go  to  bed.  These  rag-pickers  are  early  birds.  I  have 
known  them  travel  four  or  five  miles  of  a  morning,  to  get  to 
their  own  walk." 

"  Own  walk.     What  is  that  ?" 

"  All  the  city  is  divided  up  among  them.  Each  must  keep 
to  his  own  walk.  If  one  should  trespass  upon  another,  he 
would  get  a  wet  cloth  over  his  mouth  some  ni^ht  when  he 
was  asleep,  and  nobody  would  know  or  care  how  he  died." 

"  The  coroner's  jury  would  inquire  into  the  matter." 

"  Coroner !  fiddlesacks !     I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  I  did 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  199 

not  mean  to  answer  you  that  way,  though  I  did  know  that 
coroner's  juries  care  the  least  of  anybody  how  such  fellows 
die.  The  verdict  would  be  '  accidental  death,'  '  found  dead,' 
'  died  of  visitation  of  Providence ;'  or,  if  the  murderers  got  a 
chance,  which  they  Anight  do  easy  enough,  to  chuck  the  body 
in  the  dock,  the  verdict  would  be  '  found  drowned,'  no  matter 
if  he  had  a  hole  in  his  head  as  big  as  my  fist." 

"  They  could  not  carry  the  body  from  this  neighborhood  to 
the  river  without  being  detected." 

"  Could'nt  they.  How  did  Ring-nosed  Bill  and  Snakey  Jo 
carry  Pedlar  Jake  from  Gale  Jones's  to  Peck-slip  and  send 
him  afloat  ?" 

"  What,  dead  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  they  put  too  much  opium  in  his  rum  to  get  him 
to  sleep,  so  they  could  rob  him,  and  he  did  not  wake  up,  and 
so  they  walked  him  off." 

"  Walked  him  off,  how  2" 

"  They  stood  him  up  and  fastened  one  of  their  legs  to  his 
each  side,  so  that  when  they  stepped  his  feet  travelled  too,  and 
so  they  went  along,  talking  to  him  and  cursing  him  for  being 
BO  drunk,  till  they  got  to  the  dock." 

"  Where  were  the  Police,  do  they  never  notice  such  things  ?" 

"  Lord,  no  sir,  they  steps  round  the  corner  when  they  sees 
a  drunken  man  coming,  particularly  if  he  has  one  of  his 
friends  with  him." 

"  And  do  you  think,  Tom,  that  the  rag-pickers  would  mur 
der  a  fellow-creature  who  trespassed,  as  they  call  it,  upon  their 
grounds,  without  compunction  of  conscience  ?" 


200  HOT     CORX. 

"Conscience,  sir,  what  do  they  know  about  conscience? 
The  '  Padre'  keeps  their  conscience." 

"  But  the  law,  is  there  no  law  in  this  Christian  City  ?" 

"  Law,  pshaw !  what  has  your  book-law  to  do  with  rag 
pickers'  law  1" 

"  True  enough ;  or  *  father  confessors,'  either." 

The  next  morning  Tom  made  his  report.  At  first  it  was  a 
positive  refusal.  "  She  can  make  sixpence  a  day,  and  pick 
up  enough  to  eat." 

"  Well  then  she  shall  pay  you  sixpence  a  day.  She  can 
soon  learn  to  sew  and  earn  more  than  that.  Juliana  does  it 
every  day." 

"  But  she  shall  not  stay  there  nights.  They  will  make  a 
Protestant  of  her." 

"  That  was  not  the  sticking  point,"  says  Tom,  "  if  she  stays 

here,  she  cannot  make  a of  her  there.     The  best  I  could 

do  was  to  let  her  go  home  nights  and  come  days.  That  is 
6etter  than  nothing.  The  poor  little  thing  won't  have  to  go 
begging,  and  be  burned,  and  kicked,  and  vomited  with  filthy 
tobacco  cuds,  and  then  whipped  if  she  don't  bring  home  six 
pence  every  night  for  her  mother  to  buy  rum  with.  If  she 
cannot  earn  it  here  at  first,  I  will,  and  we  will  get  her  away 
entirely,  after  a  while." 

Noble  Tom  !  Glorious  good  boy !  "What  a  heart !  How 
long  is  it  since  thou  wert  as  one  of  them,  kicked  and  cuffed, 
and  groveling  drunk  in  the  gutter  ?  Who  thought  then  that 
thy  rags  and  filth  covered  such  a  heart  ?  Who  knew  of  the 
virtuous  lessons  given  thee  by  a  pious  mother  ;  and  how,  after 


LIFE    SCENES    IN    NEW     YORK.  201 

years 'of  forge tfulness,  sin,  wretchedness,  misery,  that  that  good 
seed  would  vegetate  and  bring  forth  such  sweet  flowers  and 
good  fruit,  as  we  are  now  tasting  in  these  good  deeds  and 
kind  words.  What  if  nine  of  the  fallen  whom  we  lift  up, 
fall  back  again  ?  so  that  one  stand,  who'shall  refuse  to  lend  a 
helping  hand?  Let  us  lift  up  the  lowly  and  make  the 
haughty  humble.  Why  should  they  do  evil  ? 

Again  the  messenger  went  up  to  the  Great  Recorder,  and 
a  double  deed  of  mercy  was  written  down. 

Wild  Maggie,  thy  sins  are  forgiven.  Look  at  thy  work. 
This  is  the  poor  outcast  boy  of  whom  you  said, 

"Tom,  I  am  going  to  provide  you  with  a  home.  You 
must  go  to  the  House  of  Industry,  reform,  and  make  a  man 
of  yourself." 

The  work  is  more  than  half  done. 

Madalina,  though  still  suffering  from  her  brutal  treatment, 
was  a  happy  girl  when  she  found  that  she  was  not  to  be  driven 
out  to  beg  in  the  streets. 

But  she  could  not  understand  why  her  mother  wanted  her 
to  sleep  at  home.  Tom  could.  "  Too  young !  Pooh  !  before 
she  is  a  year  older,  she  will  be  lost."  Too  true !  Before  she 
had  been  in  "  the  Home  "  six  months,  she  had  learned  to  read, 
write,  and  work,  and  had  grown  much  in  stature  and  fine 
looks.  Then  she  would  have  been  placed  in  some  good 
family,  but  her  mother  would  not  consent.  She  still  com 
plained  of  her  breast,  and  had  frequent  turns  of  vomiting. 
She  always  felt  worse  in  the  morning,  "because,"  she  said, 
"  that  was  such  a  dreadful  place  to  sleep." 

9* 


202  HOT     CORN. 

Sometimes  she  did  not  come  for  a  few  days ;  her  mother 
made  her  stay  at  home  and  sew.  She  had  learned  to 
work,,  and  her  services  were  worth  more  at  that  than  beg 
ging. 

One  night  she  came  in,  in  great  haste,  crying. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Madalina  ?" 

"  My  mother  has  had  an  offer  for  me." 

"  An  offer  for  you.     What  is  that  ?" 

Tom  looked  daggers.     "  I  told  you  so." 

"  What  is  it,  my  good  girl.     Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  My  mother  bid  me  go  out  with  her  this  evening,  both  of 
us  dressed  in  our  best.  She  said  she  had  an  offer  for  me,  and 
was  going  to  meet  the  man  in  Duane  street. 

" 4  What  does  the  man  want  of  me,  mother  ?'  said  I. 

u '  Oh,  he  will  make  a  fine  lady  of  you,  and  you  will  live 
with  him.' 

" '  But  -I  don't  want  to  live  with  him ;  I  had  rather  live 
with  Mr.  Pease,  at  "the  Home."  I  had  rather  live  where 
Tom  is,  for  Tom  is  good  to  me.' " 

Young  love's  first  happy  dream  ! 

"  But  we  went  on,  and  I  held  my  head  down,  and  felt  very 
bad.  By-and-by  I  heard  my  mother  say,  *  Here  she  is,'  and  I 
looked  up  a  little,  and  saw  two  gentlemen — that  is,  they  were 
clothed  like  gentlemen — and  directly  one  spoke  to  the  other. 

" '  I  say,  Jim,  she  will  do ;  give  the  old  woman  the  money, 
and  let  us  take  her  up  to  Kate's.' 

"  Mercy  on  me,  that  voice !  I  felt  that  sore  spot  in  my 
breast  grow  more  and  more  painful.  I  looked  up  ;  it  was  the 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  203 

« 

man  who  kicked  me ;  the  other  was  the  man  who  put  the 
tobacco  in  my  mouth." 

"  What  did  you  do  ?" 

"  I  stood  a  little  behind  my  mother  while  she  held  out  her 
hand  for  the  money,  and  when  their  eyes  were  turned  I  ran. 
I  only  heard  them  say,  '  Why,  damn  her,  she  is  gone.'  Yes, 
I  was  gone,  and  here  I  am.  Oh,  I  am  so  sick  and  so  faint! 
do  let  me  lay  down,  and  don't  let  those  men  have  me.  Oh 
dear,  the  thought  of  it  will  kill  me  !" 

So  it  did.  A  cruel  blow  had  fallen  upon  a  tender  plant. 
The  beggar  girl  might  not  have  felt  it.  The  little  seamstress 
did.  A  taste  of  virtue,  civilization,  Christianity,  friendship, 
love,  had  given  the  food  of  sin  and  shame  a  hated  taste.  Sold 
by  a  mother  to  a  libidinous  brute — to  a  miserable  rum-selling, 
— worse  than  rum-drinking — wretch,  who  wears  gentlemanly 
garments,  and  kicks,  burns,  and  gags  little  beggar  girls.  It 
was  too  much  for  human  nature  to  bear,  and  it  sunk  under 
this  last  blow,  worse  than  the  first. 

Madalina  went  to  bed  with  a  raging  fever — a  nervous  pros 
tration.  All  that  kindness  and  skill  could  do,  was  done  for 
the  poor  sufferer  ;  but  what  could  we  do  for  the  body,  when 
the  heart  was  sick  ? 

Next  morning  her  mother  came  and  insisted  that  she  should 
go  home.  They  begged,  pleaded,  and  promised  in  vain  ;  go 
she  must. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Madalina,  "  it  will  be  only  for  a  little, 
little  while.  I  shall  be  well—at  least  all  will  be  well  with  me 


.1 

204  HOT     CORN. 

• 

in  a  few  days.     I  cannot  endure    this  pain  in  my  breast. 
You  will  come  and  see  .me.     Good  bye.     Tom,  you  will  ? 

It  was  an  honest,  manly  tear  that  Tom  turned  away  to  hide, 
Poor  fellow,  he  need  not  have  been  ashamed  of  it.  Such  is 
nature. 

"  She  is  worse,  sir,"  said  Tom,  one  morning,  "  and  no  won 
der.  I  wish  you  would  go  and  see  her ;  she  wants  to  see  you 
once  more.  Such  a  place  to  be  sick  in !  oh,  dear !  how  did  I 
ever  sleep  there  ?  I  wish  you  would  go  with  me  to-nightr 
about  ten  o'clock,  when  they  are  all  in.  You  will  see  life  as 
it  is." 

"  Very  well,  Tom,  I  will  go.  Gall  for  me  at  ten,  or  when 
you  are  ready." 

II  was  my  fortune  to  drop  in  upon  that  very  evening,  and 
form  one  of  the  company  to  that  abode  of  misery, — that  home 
of  the  city  poor, — so  that  I  am  able  to  describe  it  in  my  own 
language.  The  place  where  Madalina  lived,  is  a  well  known 
Five  Points  locality,  called  "  Cow  Bay." 

As  you  go  up  that  great  Broadway  of  wealth,  fashion,  lux 
ury,  and  extravagance  of  this  great  city,  from  the  Park  and  its 
marble  halls  of  justice,  you  will  pass  another  great  marble  front 
— it  is  the  palace  of  trade,  where  the  rich  are  clothed  every 
day  in  fine  linens,  when  they  go  "  shopping  at  Stewart's." 
Further  along  are  great  marts,  where  velvet  coverings  for  tho 
floor  are  sold ;  for  there  are  some  who  have  never  trod  upon 
bare  boards.  You  need  not  look  down  Duane  street,  unless 
you  have  a  curiosity  to  see  the  spot  where  a  miserable  mother 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  206 

would  sell  the  virtue  of  her  child  to  a  wretch  whose  trade  ia 
seduction.  Don't  look  into  that  little  old  wooden  shanty  at 
the  corner  of  Pearl  street ;  it  is  a  "  family  grocery."  The  little 
ragged  girl  you  see  coming  out  with  a  rusty  tin  coffee-pot, 
has  not  been  there  for  milk  for  her  sick  mother — her  father 
is  in  the  hospital  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way — his  arm 
was  broken  in  a  "  family  quarrel."  You  will  pass  the  Broad 
way  Theatre  before  you  reach  the  next  corner,  with  its  sur 
roundings  of  fashionable  "saloons,"  into  any  of  which  you 
may  go  without  fear  of  losing  caste  among  genteel  brandy- 
smashers  and  wine-bibbers.  Perhaps  you  will  be  amused 
with  a  small  play,  such  as  burning,  kicking,  or  vomiting  a 
little  beggar  girl ;  for  nice  young  men  are  fond  of  theatrical 
amusements.  Do  not  go  into  that  place  of  "  fashionable 
resort,"  the  theatre,  if  it  is  a  hot  evening,  for  it  is  worse  ven 
tilated  than  the  black-hole  of  Calcutta,  and  if  the  fetid  air 
does  not  breed  a  fever,  it  will  breed  a  feverish  thirst,  which 
will  tempt  you  to  quench  it  in  potations  of  poison.  Probably 
that  is  why  it  was  tlus  built. 

A  few  steps  beyond  is  Anthony  street.  Stop  a  moment 
here,  and  look  up  and  down  the  great  thoroughfare  of  New- 
York  before  you  leave  it.  A  hundred  pedestrians  pass  you 
every  minute ;  almost  without  an  exception,  every  one  of  them 
richly  dressed  men  and  women,  smiling  in  joy  and  happiness. 
Here  is  an  exception,  certainly.  A  woman  in  poverty's 
garb,  with  a  bundle  of  broken  boards  and  old  timbers,  from 
a  demolished  building,  that  would  be-  a  load  for  a  pack-horse. 
She  is  followed  by  two  little  boys,  with  each  a  bundle,  crush- 


206  HOT     CORN. 

ing  their  young  years  into  early  decrepitude.  They  have 
brought  their  heavy  loads  all  the  long  way  from  Murray  street. 
They  turn  down  Anthony  ;  look  where  they  go.  If  they  live 
in  that  street,  it  cannot  be  far,  for  there,  in  plain  view,  stands 
a  large  frame  house,  corner-wise  towards  you,  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  street.  No,  it  only  looks  so,  it  is  beyond  the 
end  of  it.  Yet  look,  note  it  well,  the  corner  of  that  house  so 
plain  in  view,  pointing  towards  you,  is  one  of  the  world-wide- 
known  Five  Points  of  New- York. 

"  What !  not  so  near  Broadway,  right  in  plain  sight  of  all 
who  wear  silks  and  broadcloth,  and  go  up  and  down  that 
street  every  day  ?  Surely  that  is  not  the  place  where  all  those 
bad,  miserable,  poor  outcasts  live,  that  the  newspapers  talk  so 
much  about." 

"  The  very  spot,  my  dear  lady." 

"  Really,  this  must  be  looked  to.  It  is  quite  too  bad  to 
think  that  place  is  so  near  our  fashionable  street,  and  in  sight 
too.  I  thought  it  was  away  off  somewhere  the  other  side  of 
town.  If  I  thought  it  would  do  any  good,  I  would  let  Peter 
take  a  few  dollars  and  some  old  clothes,  and  go  down  with 
them  to-morrow." 

"  Try  it,  madam.  Better  go  yourself.  Let  Peter  drive  you 
down ;  see  for  yourself  what  has  been  done  and  what  is  yet 
to  do.  Lend  your  hand  to  cure  that  eye-sore,  which  will  pain 
you  every  time  you  pass,  for  you  cannot  shut  it  out  of  sight, 
now  you  know  where  it  is ;  so  near  your  daily  walk  or  drive 
to  Stewart's,  or  nightly  visit  to  the  theatre,  or  weekly  visit  to 
the  church.  Go  to-morrow  ;  don't  put  it  off  till  next  week." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  20^ 

In  the  meantime,  reader,  let  us  follow  the  woman  and  two 
boys  with  their  heavy  burden,  on  their  homeward  way  to 
night.  We  will  go  and  see  where  they  live. 

So  I  followed  down  Anthony,  past  some  very  old  rat- 
harbor  houses,  filled  with  human  beings,  almost  as  thick  as 
those  quadrupeds  burrow  in  a  rotten  wharf;  so  on  they  go 
across  Elm ;  now  they  stand  a  moment  on  the  edge  of  Centre, 
for  one  of  the  little  boys  has  taken  hold  of  his  mother's  dress 
to  pull  her  back- — for  she  cannot  look  up  with  her  load — with 
a  sudden  cry  of,  "  Stop,  old  woman  !  Don't  you  see  the  car  is 
coming  ?  Why,  you  are  as  blind  as  a  brick.  That  is  black 
Jim  a-driving,  and  he  had  just  as  soon  drive  over  the  likes  of 
you  as  eat.  Hang  you  for  a  fool,  han't  you  got  no  sense,  old 
stupid  ?  There  now,  run  like  thunder,  blast  ye,  for  here 
comes  another  of  the  darned  cars — run,  I  tell  you  !" 

She  did  run  with  her  great  load,  till  she  almost  dropped  under 
its  overwhelming  weight.  Why  should  she  thus  labor — thus 
expend  so  much  strength  to  so  little  purpose  ?  She  knew  no 
other  way  to  live.  Nobody  gave  her  remunerative  labor  for 
strong  hands;  nobody  took  those  two  stout  boys,  and  set 
them  to  till  the  earth,  or  taught  them  how  to  create  bread, 
and  yet  they  must  eat,  and  so  they  prowl  about  the  pulled- 
down  houses,  snatching  everything  they  can  carry  away — a 
sort  of  permitted  petty  larceny,  that  teaches  those  who  practice 
it  how  to  do  bigger  deeds  ;  and  those  old  timbers  they  split 
up  into  kindling  wood  and  peddle  through  the  streets. 

Poor  uncared  for  fellow  creatures;  working  and  stealing  to 
escape  starvation — living,  for  what  ? — running  to  escape  being 


208  HOT     CORN. 

run  over  by  an  unfeeling  driver  who  cared  just  as  much  for 
them  as  for  so  many  dogs. 

On  they  went,  down  Anthony  street ;  and  I  followed,  deter 
mined  to  see  the  home  of  this  portion  of  the  city  poor.  It  was 
but  one  block  further — only  one  little  space  beyond  this  great, 
wide,  open,  railroad  street,  whose  thoughtless  thousands  daily 
go  up  and  down  from  homes  of  wealth  to  wealth-producing 
ships  and  stores,  little  thinking  of  the  amount  of  human 
misery  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  rails  on  which  they 
glide  swiftly  along. 

One  block  further,  and  the  street  opens  into  a  little,  half 
acre  sort  of  triangular  space,  sometimes  dignified  with  the 
name  of  "  park,"  but  why,  those  who  know  can  only  tell,  for 
it  has  no  fence,  no  grass,  and  but  a  dozen  miserable  trees ;  'tis 
lumbered  up  with  carts  and  piles  of  stones,  and  strings  of 
drying  clothes,  and  scores  of  unwashed  specimens  of  young 
humanity,  whose  home  is  in  the  dirt,  whether  in  the  street  or 
parents'  domicil. 

Here  let  us  stop  and  look  around.  A  very  short  street, 
only  one  block  across  the  base  of  the  "  park,"  runs  to  the  right 
from  where  we  stand,  past  the  "  Five  Points  House  of  Indus 
try,"  to  Cross  street.  This  is  the  most  notorious  little  street 
in  New  York.  Its  name  is  Little  Water  street.  It  lead  from 
the  "  Old  Brewery  "  to  "  Cow  Bay."  Who  that  has  lived  long 
in  this  city,  or  read  its  history,  particularly  that  portion  of  it 
written  by  Dickens,  has  not  heard  of  the  "  Old  Brewery  ?" 
It  is  not  there  now.  That  awful  den  of  crime,  poverty,  and 
wretched  drunken  misery  has  been  pulled  down,  and  in  its 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  20f 

place  a  substantial  brick  edifice,  in  which  is  a  chapel  and 
school-room,  and  home  of  another  missionary,  has  been  erected 
by  the  noble,  generous  efforts  of  the  Ladies'  Home  Missionary 
Society,  of  the  Methodist  Church.  The  old  tenants  have  been 
driven  out  or  reformed.  How  different,  too,  are  the  present 
occupants  of  that  large  brick  pile  in  Little  Water  street,  from 
those  who  filled  its  numerous  rooms  before  the  missionary 
came  there.  Every  room  was  a  brothel  or  a  den  of  thieves, 
or  both  combined.  Now  it  is  a  house  of  prayer — a  home  for 
the  homeless — a  place  of  refuge  for  midnight  wandering  little 
beggar  girls. 

Before  us  lies  the  misnamed,  neglected  triangle,  called  a 
park.  At  the  further  end  is  the  frame  house  that  we  see  so 
plainly  as  we  look  down  Anthony  street  from  Broadway.  At 
the  left,  as  though  it  were'  a  continuation  of  Little  Water 
street,  lies  that  notorious  Five  Points  collection  of  dens  of 
misery,  Cow  Bay.  It  is  a  cul-de-sac,  perhaps  thirty  feet  wide 
at  the  mouth,  narrowing,  with  crooked,  uneven  lines,  back  to 
a  point  about  a  hundred  feet  from  the  entrance.  Into  this 
court  I  tracked  the  kindling-wood-splitters,  and  threaded  my 
way  among  the  throng  of  carts  and  piles  of  steaming  garbage  ; 
elbowing  my  way  along  the  narrow  side-walk,  and  up  a  flight 
of  broken,  almost  impassable  steps,  I  reached  the  first  floor 
hall  of  one  of  the  houses,  just  in  time  to  see  that  great  load 
of  wood  and  its  bearer  toiling  up  a  narrow,  dark,  broken  stair 
way,  which  I  essayed  to  climb ;  but  just  then,  from  the  room 
on  the  left,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  there  came  such  a  piercing, 
murder -telling,  woman's  shriek,  that  I  started  back,  grasped 


210  HOT    CORN. 

my  stout  cane,  determined  to  brave  the  worst  for  the  rescue, 
made  one  step,  pushed  open  the  door,  creaking  with  a  horrid 
grating  upon  its  rusty  hinges,  and  stood  in  the  presence  of  an 
Eve,  before  the  fall,  in  point  of  clothing,  but  long,  long  after 
that  in  point  of  sin.  As  I  entered  the  open  door,  she  sprung 
towards  it ;  her  husband  caught  her  by  the  hair,  and  drew 
her  back,  with  no  gentle  hand  or  word. 

"  Let  me  go,  let  me  go — help  ! — he  wants  to  murder  me ; 
let  me  go — help,  help,  help  !" 

I  did  help,  but  it  was  help  to  the  poor  man,  for  she  turned 
upon  him  with  the  fury  of  a  tiger,  scratching  and  tearing  his 
face  and  clothes,  and  then  settling  with  a  grasp  upon  his  throat, 
which  produced  the  death-rattle  of  suffocation. 

A  strong  silk  handkerchief  served  the  hand-cuff's  place,  and 
to  bind  hands  and  feet  together ;  after  which  she  lay  quietly 
upon  a  little  straw  and  rags,  in  one  corner,  the  only  articles 
of  furniture  in  the  room,  except  a  bottle,  broken  cup,  and 
something  that  looked  as  though  it  once  had  been  female 
apparel. 

"  Is  this  your  wife  ?" 

"  She  was." 

"What  is  she  now?" 

"  The  devil's  fury.     You  saw  what  she  is." 

"  Do  you  live  with  her  ?" 

"  I  did  for  seven  years." 

"  Did  she  drink  then  ?" 

"  Sometimes — not  so  bad." 

"DidyoudrinV" 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  211 

"  Well,  none  to  hurt.     I  kept  a  coffee  house." 

"And  made  your  wife  a  drunkard.  How  came  she 
reduced  to  this  dreadful  condition  ?  You  are  well  dressed." 

"I  left  her  three  months  ago,  and  went  West  to  find  a 
place  to  move  to.  She  said  if  she  could  go  where  nobody 
knew  her  she  would  reform.  I  left  her  in  a  comfortable 
room,  with  good  furniture  and  good  clothes.  Now,  where 
are  they  ?  All  gone  to  the  pawnbroker's  ;  the  money  gone 
for  rum — her  virtue,  shame,  everything  gone.  How,  what, 
and  where  do  I  find  her  ?  As  you  see,  crazy  drunk,  in  this 
miserable  hole,  in  Cow  Bay.  And  my  boy,  starved,  made 
drunk,  and — " 

"  What,  have  you  a  child  by  her,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  sweet  little  boy,  six  years  old.  Oh,  I  wish  he  was 
Awake,  that  you  might  see  him." 

And  he  stepped  to  the  miserable  bed,  and  lifted  the  dirty 
rag  of  a  quilt,  looked  a  moment  upon  the  pale  boy,  dropped 
upon  his  knees,  raised  him  in  his  arms,  looked  again  wildly,  and 
fell  back  fainting  as  he  exclaimed,  "  Great  God,  he  is  dead  !" 

What  little  I  could  do  or  say  to  relieve  such  heart-crush 
ing  woe  as  overwhelmed  this  poor  father  of  that  murdered 
child — this  miserable  husband  of  that  wretched,  crazy — 
rum-crazy  woman,  was  soon  done.  What  else  could  I  do 
than  call  in  a  police  officer  to  take  her  away  to  prison  ? 
whence  she  went  to  the  hospital,  then  to  the  drunkard's 
uncared-for,  unwept-over  grave  ! 

Now,  strange  footsteps  are  winding  up  the  rickety  stairs, 
which  I  follow.  They  were  those  of  Tom  and  the  Mis 
sionary,  for  here  lived  little  Madalina. 


212  HOT     CORN. 

The  second  floor  was  divided  into  three  rooms.  We  looked 
in  as  we  passed.  The  back  room  was  ten  by  twelve  feet 
square,  inhabited  by  two  black  men  and  their  wives,  and  a 
white  woman  lodger,  who  "  sometimes"  has  company."  llere 
they  eat,  drink,  and  sleep, — cook,  wash,  and  iron.  The 
latter  operation  is  performed  on  the  bottom  of  the  wash-tub, 
for  there  is  no  table.  The  front  room,  eight  by  fourteen  feet, 
contained  five  blacks,  men  and  women.  Each  of  these  rooms 
rented  for  four  dollars  a  month,  in  advance. 

A  dark  centre  room,  occupied  by  a  white  woman,  was  only 
six  by  seven  feet,  for  which  she  paid  fifty  cents  a  week.  On 
the  third  floor,  the  dark  centre  room,  same  size,  was  occupied 
by  a  real  good  looking,  young,  healthy  German  woman,  with 
her  husband,  a  great  burly  negro,  as  black  as  Africa's  own 
son,  and  a  fine  looking  little  white  boy,  four  years  old,  as  a 
lodger.  We  found  the  door  shut,  and  no  ventilator  bigger 
than  the  key-hole.  There  was  a  smell  about  the  air. 

In  the  back  room,  ten  by  twelve,  we  found  the  wood-split 
ters — the  woman  and  her  two  boys,  a  negro  and  his  wife,  a 
woman  lodger,  and  occasional  company.  The  rent  of  this 
room  is  one  dollar  a  week  in  advance.  The  total  amount  of 
furniture,  was  not  good  security  for  one  week's  rent. 

"  Good  woman,  why  do  you  bring  all  your  great  ,piles  of 
wood  up  these  steep,  slippery  stairs,  to  fill  up  y6ur  room  ?" 

"  Cot  in  himmel,  vare  vould  I  puts  him  ?  In  te  court  ? 
De  peoples  steal  him  all." 

True,  there  was  no  place  but  in  that  one  room  to  store  up 
H  supply,  while  the  time  of  gleaning  was  good.  Then  it  has 
to  be  carried  down  to  the  court,  to  be  split  up  into  kindlings, 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  213 

and  then  again  carried  up  for  storage.  How  so  many  find 
room  to  live  in  such  narrow  space,  if  our  readers  would  learnt 
let  them  go  and  make  personal  inquiry.  They  will  find 
plenty  of  just  such  cases,  with  slight  search. 

Up,  up  again,  one  more  flight  of  creaking  stairs,  without 
bannisters,  the  thin  worn  steps  bending  beneath  our  tread, 
and  we  are  on  the  upper  floor  of  this  one  of  a  hundred  just 
alike  "  tenant  houses."  Along  the  dark,  narrow  passage, 
opening  by  that  low  door  at  the  end,  into  a  room  under  the 
roof,  ten  by  fifteen  feet,  lighted  by  one  dormer  window,  and 
we  are  in  the  home  of  Madalina,  the  rag-picker's  daughter. 
Home  !  Can  it  be  that  that  holy  name  has  been  so  dese 
crated — that  this  child,  with  sylph-like  form  and  angel  face, 
must  call  this  room  her  home.  'Tis  only  for  a  little  while  I 
She  will  soon  have  another  ! 

In  one  corner  of  the  room  stood  two  hand  organs,  such  as 
the  most  of  us  city  dwellers  are  daily  tormented  with,  groan 
ing  out  their  horrid  music  under  our  windows,  while  the 
grinder  and  his  monkey  look  anxiously  for  falling  pennies  or 
pea-nuts.  These  stand  a  little  way  apart,  with  a  couple  of 
boards  laid  across  the  space.  On  these  boards  there  had 
been  an  attempt  to  make  a  bed,  of  sundry  old  coats,  a  dirty 
blanket,  and  other  vermin  harbors. 

On  this  bed  lay  the  poor  little  sufferer.  Not  so  very  little 
either.  In  her  own  native  Italy  she  had  been  counted  almost 
a  woman. 

We  have  seen  many,  many  beautiful  faces,  but  never  one 
like  this — so  angelic. 


214  HOT     CORN. 

"  It  is  a  bad  sign,"  said  Tom,  in  answer  to  a  remark  upon 
the  expression  of  her  face  ;  "  it  is  a  sign  she  will  soon  be 
among  those  she  looks  so  much  like.  She  never  looked  so 
before.  She  is  a  living  angel  now,  she  will  soon  be  a  real 
one." 

"  Madalina,  my  good  child,"  said  the  missionary,  "  how  do 
you  feel  to-night  ?" 

"  The  pain  in  my  breast  has  been  very  bad,  but  it  is  easier 
now.  It  always  goes  away  when  you  come.  I  am  so  glad 
you  came  to-night,  for  I  wanted  to  thank  you  for  a  thousand 
good  things  you  have  done  for  me." 

"  Are  you  afraid  you  will  not  get  well  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  I  am  not  afraid ;  I  know  I  shall  not,  but  I  am 
not  afraid.  I  don't  want  to  live,  if  I  must  live  here ;  look 
around.  It  did  not  use  to  look  as  it  does  now  to  me ;  when 
I  went  out  begging,  and  came  home  tired  and  cold  and  hun 
gry,  I  could  lay  down  with  the  monkeys  on  my  mother's  bag 
of  nasty,  wet  rags,  and  go  to  sleep  directly.  Now  they  worry 
me  to  death  with  their  chattering.  Do  drive  them  down, 
Tom,  that  is  a  dear,  good  fellow." 

It  would  evidently  have  been  a  source  of  great  gratification 
to  Tom,  to  have  pitched  five  or  six  of  them  out  of  the  win 
dow.  But  there  were  dark  eyes  scowling  on  him,  out  of  a 
dozen  sockets  of  men  who  come  from  the  land  of  the  stiletto, 
and  looked  now  as  though  they  could  as  readily  use  it  aa 
play  the  organ  and  lead  the  monkey. 

I  looked  about,  and  counted  six  men  or  stout  bovs,  and 
eight  women  and  girls,  besides  several  children,  monkeys, 


LIFE     S  DENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  215 

tambourines  and  hand  organs.  In  one  corner  was  the  rag 
picker's  store.  This  had  been  the  bed  of  Madalina  until  this 
evening,  she  grew  so  much  worse,  that  she  was  lifted  up  to  the 
bed  I  have  described.  But  here  she  had  not  escaped  the 
torment  of  the  monkeys.  They  had  long  been  her  companions 
and  seemed  determined  to  be  so  still.  They  were  climbing  up 
and  down,  or  sitting  chattering  on  her  bed.  Late  as  it  was  in 
the  evening  there  were  several  fresh  arrivals  of  parties  of 
musicians  and  rag-pickers  from  their  distant  walks.  Several 
were  at  supper.  A  long,  black  table  with  a  wooden  bench, 
on  either  side,  was  furnished  with  two  wooden  trays,  which 
had  seen  long  service  and  little  soap.  Into  these  was  ladled 
from  time  to  time,  the  savory  contents  of  a  large  pot  simmer 
ing  upon  the  stove.  Each  guest  helped  himself  with  fingers 
and  spoon.  Whether  the  stew  was  composed  of  monkey 
meat,  or  two  days  old  veal,  I  cannot  say.  That  onions 
formed  a  strong  part  of  the  ingredients,  we  had  olfactory 
demonstration.  Some  of  the  party  indulged  in  a  bottle  of 
wine,  and  we  smelt  something  very  much  like  bad  rum  01 
worse  brandy ;  but  generally  speaking,  this  class  of  the  city 
poor  are  not  great  drunkards.  One  end  of  the  room  was 
entirely  occupied  by  a  camp  bed.  That  is,  in  that  narrow 
space  of  ten  feet,  ten  human  beings,  big  and  little,  of  both 
sexes,  laid  down  side  by  side.  The  balance  of  the  family  lay 
around  here  and  there ;  some  on  and  some  under  the  table, 
some  on  great  black  chests,  of  which  each  family  had  one, 
wherein  they  lock  all  their  personal  goods  from  their  pilfering 
room  mates.  The  stove  and  a  few  dishes  finishes  the  cat- 


HOT     CORN. 

alogue  of  furniture.  How  many  persons  are,  or  can  be  stowed 
into  this  one  room,  is  beyond  my  powers  of  computation. 

Will  some  of  my  readers,  who  faint  at  the  sn^ell  of  unsavory 
food,  or  who  could  not  sleep  but  in  fresh  linen  and  well  aired 
rooms,  fancy  what  must  be  the  feelings  of  poor  Madalina, 
who  had  just  begun  to  taste  of  the  comforts  of  civilized  life, 
now  sick  and  dying  in  such  a  room,  where  the  penny  candle 
only  served  to  make  the  thick  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  more 
visible  and  more  suffocating  ? 

One  of  the  difficulties  in  all  these  close-packed  rooms  is  the 
necessity  of  keeping  the  door  always  shut,  to  prevent  pilfer 
ing,  thus  leaving  the  only  chance  for  fresh  air  to  enter,  or 
foul  air  to  escape,  by  the  one  small  window  in  the  roof. 

Having  given  you  'a  view  of  the  room,  and  its  inhabitants 
and  furniture,  let  us  look  again  upon  poor  Madalina,  as  she 
lies  panting  for  breath  upon  her  hard  pallet.  Her  face, 
naturally  dark,  has  an  unhealthy  whiteness  spread  over  it,  and 
there  is  a  small,  bright  crimson  spot  upon  one  cheek — -the 
other  is  hidden  in  the  taper  fingers  of  the  hand  upon  which  it 
rests.  Such  a  pair  of  bright  black  eyes !  Oh,  how  beautiful ! 
Her  wavy  locks  of  jet,  are  set  off  by  a  clean,  white  handker 
chief,  spread  over  the  bundle  of  rags  which  forms  her  pillow, 
by  one  of  her  visitors.  Now,  in  spite  of  pain,  there  is  a  smile 
lighting  up  her  face,  and  showing  such  a  set  of  teeth  as  a 
princess  might  covet^  Whence  this  happy  smile?  Listen 
how  cheaply  it  is  brought  upon  tne  face  of  the  suffering 
innocent.  She  had  said,  "I  am  so  thirsty,  and  nothing  to 
drink  but  uasty,  warm  tea."  Directly,  Tom  was  missing 


L  rr  v-J 


THK     UKATH-BKU    OF     MAIMUN A.  —  Ptt*    217 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     JTEW     YORK.  21 7 

Now  lie  was  back  again,  and  there  lie  stood  with  a  nice,  white 
pitcher  in  one  hand,  full  of  ice  water,  and  a  glass  tumbler  in 
the  other.  Now  he  pours  it  full  of  the  sparkling  nectar — now 
he  drops  upon  one  knee  and  carries  it  to  those  parched  lips. 
Is  it  any  wonder  that  she  smiles  ?  Is  it  any  wonder  that  that 
simple-minded,  good-hearted  boy  should  look  up,  as  I  stood 
looking  over  the  kneeling  Missionary,  and  say,  "  Don't  she 
look  like  an  angel,  sir  ?" 

It  was  an  angelic  smile.  It  was  a  sight  worth  days  and 
nights  of  earnest  seeking,  and  yet,  Oh,  how  cheaply  purchased. 
Only  one  glass  of  cold  water ! 

Would  that  I  had  some  Raphaelic  power  to  transfer  the 
picture  of  that  scene  to  this  page,  for  you  to  look  upon  as 
well  as  read  of,  for  a  sight  of  that  face  with  its  surroundings, 
would  do  you  good.  It  would  make  you  yearn  after  the 
blessed  opportunity  of  holding  the  cup  of  cold  water  to  other 
fevered  lips,  lighting  up  other  angelic,  happy,  thankful 
smiles. 

As  it  is,  the  artist  has  only  been  able  to  give  you  a  faint 
illustration  of  the  principal  features  of  this  scene.  So  far  as  it 
goes,  you  cannot  but  admire  his  skill — admire  the  delineator's 
art,  by  which  the  picture  is  sketched  upon  the  block,  and  the 
engraver's  skill,  who  cuts  the  lines  by  which  the  printer  spreads 
the  scene  out  before  the  admiring  eyes  of  those  who  read  and 
view.  Such  is  art,  and  skill,  and  industiy.  How  much  better 
than  the  idle  life  of  those  who  furnished  the  originals  for  these 
"Life  Scenes!" 

Vainly  we  pleaded  with  the  mother  of  Madalina  to  carry  her 
10 


218  HOT     CO  UN. 

to  a  comfoitable  room — to  my  house — to  any  house — to  the 
hospital — to  get  a  physician — a  nurse — some  one,  at  least,  to 
give  her  a  drink  of  cold  water  through  the  next  long,  long 
day,  when  she  would  be  left  nearly  alone — perhaps  quite  so — 
locked  in  this  dreadful  room — while  men  and  monkeys,  organs 
and  tambourines,  beggers  and  rag-pickers,  were  all  away  plying 
their  trades  in  the  streets  of  the  city.  It  was  no  use ;  she  was 
inexorable.  The  padre  was  a  very  good  doctor — the  padre 
was  good  for  her  soul — the  padre  would  pray  for  her ;  and  if 
she  was  to  die,  she  should  not  die  in  the  house  of  a  heretic. 
So  we  parted.  It  was  a  hard  parting,  for  she  clung  to  each 
one  as  she  said : 

"  Good  bye  ;  I  wish  I  could  go  with  you,  but  my  mother — 
you  have  taught  me  to  obey  my  mother,  that  all  good  chil 
dren  obey  their  mothers — so  good  bye — good  bye,  Tom.  You 
will  bring  me  another  drink  to-morrow?  yes,  I  knew  you 
would,  if  I  asked  you,  you  are  so  good  to  me.'' 

There  were  tears  at  parting,  and  they  were  not  all  tears  of 
a  sick  child,  or  good  boy,  but  strong  men  wept. 

"  Tom,"  said  the  feeble,  sobbing  voice,  after  we  had  almost 
reached  the  door,  over  the  careless  sleepers  on  the  floor ; 
"  Tom,  come  back  a  minute,  I  want  to — want  to — say — what 
if  I  should  not  see  you  again  ?  I  want  to  send  something  to  Mrs. 
Pease ;  she  was  so  kind  to  me ;  I  wish  I  had  something  to 
send  her  to  remember  me  by;  but  I  have  got  nothing — 
nothing.  Yes,  I  will  send  her  a — a  little  nearer." 

And  she  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  imprinted  a 
kiss  upon  his  lips. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  219 

"  There,  I  will  send  her  that,  it  is  all  I  have — it  will  tell  her 
I  love  her,  for  I  never  kiss  any  but  those  I  love." 

Poor  Madalina  !  Poor  Tom  !  What  must  have  been  his 
feelings  at  that  irfoment,  with  the  kiss  of  that  angelic,  dying 
girl  burning  upon  his  lips,  and  running  streams  of  lava  down 
into  his  young  heart,  while  these  words,  "  I  never  kiss  any  but 
those  I  love,"  are  thrilling  through  his  brain  like  words  of  fire  ? 

What  he  felt  I  cannot  tell.  I  will  .not  tell  what  I  felt  after 
the  first  flow  of  scalding  tears  had  passed  away,  but  I  fear 
there  was  an  unforgiving  spirit  in  my  heart ;  and  if  the  foot 
which  crushed  that  tender  flower  had  been  there  then,  per 
haps  it  and  its  fellow  had  not  carried  their  moving  power,  the 
head,  "this  side  up  with  care."  Perhaps  that  head  would 
have  been  pitched  headlong  down  these  long,  steep,  dark,  and 
narrow  stairs,  to  the  pavement — less  hard  man  its  guiding 
heart. 

"  We  must  not  kill,"  said  Tom,  as  we  reached  the  street. 

Had  he  divined  my  secret  thoughts,  or  was  it  the  response 
to  his  own  ? 

"  We  must  not  kill  those  who  sell  the  rum,  or  kick  little 
children  to  death,  or  make  brutes  of  their  mothers,  but  we 
will  kill  the  business,  or  else  we  will  prove  that  all  are  not 
good  men  in  this  world  who  pretend  to  be."  .,-  ,•  • 

"  It  is  greatly  changed,"  I  said  to  the  Missionary,  as  we 
came  down  upon  the  street,  "since  you  have  lived  here  ;  as  it 
was  some  years  ago,  when  I  first  knew  this  locality,  it  might 
not  have  been  quite  safe  to  walk  alone  through  t/iese  streets  at 
this  midnight  hour ;  now  we  have  no  fear.  Good  night." 


220  HOT     CORN. 

"  It  will  be  better  two  years  hence,  if  you  and  I  live. 
Good  night." 

"  Good  night.  Heaven  protect  you,  and  bless  your  labors. 
Good  night,  Tom."  » 

But  Tom  heard  me  not.  "  I  never  kiss  any  but  those  I  love," 
was  ringing  in  his  ears.  He  heard  nothing — thought  of 
nothing  else.  Poor  Tom !  He  carried  a  heavy  heart  to  a 
sleepless  bed  that  night. 

Back, -up  Anthony  to  Centre,  then  along  that  one  block,  and 
I  stood  and  contemplated  that  great  sombre,  gray  stone  build 
ing  which  fills  a  whole  square,  looking  down  gloomily  upon 
the  multitude  who  reek  in  misery  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  or  pursue  their  nefarious  schemes  of  crime  within  the 
very  shadow  of  "  the  Tombs."  Alas  !  prisons  prevent  not 
crime,  nor  does  incarceration  work  reformation  upon  such  as 
dwell  in  tenements  such  as  we  have  just  visited. 

"  It  is  but  a  step  from  the  palace  to  the  tomb." 

True,  and  so  it  seemed  this  night ;  for  ere  I  had  fairly 
realized  the  fact  that  I  had  passed  over  the  short  step  of  two 
squares  between  the  City  prison — the  Tombs — and  Broadway, 
I  stood  looking  into  that  great  palace  hall  on  the  corner  of 
Franklin  street,  known  as  Taylor's  Saloon. 

Was  ever  eating  and  drinking  temptation  more  gorgeously 
fitted  up?  How  the  gilt  and  carving,  and  elaborate  skill  of 
the  painters  art  glitter  in  the  more  than  sun-light  splendor  of 
a  hundred  sparkling  gas-burners.  Are  the  windows  open  ? 
No.  The  ten-feet  long  plates  of  glass  are  so  clear  from  speck, 
it  seems  as  though  it  were  open  space.  Look  in.  It  is  mid* 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  221 

night.  Is  all  still  ?  Do  the  tired  servants  sleep  ?  No.  They 
are  flitting  up  and  down,  with  noiseless  tread,  to  furnish  late 
suppers  and  health-destroying  luxuries,. to  a  host  of  men  and 
gayly  dressed  women.  'Tis  the  palace  of  luxury — 'tis  but 
a  step  from  the  palace  to  the  tombs — 'tis  but  a  step  beyond  to 
the  home  of  "  the  Rag  Picker's  Daughter" — 'tis  here  that  the 
first  step  is  taken  which  leads  to  infamy  like  that  of  that 
daughter's  mother.  •  'Tis  here  that  he,  whose  trade  is  seduc 
tion,  walketh  unsharaed  at  noonday,  or  prowls  at  midnight,  to 
select  his  victims.  'Tis  here  that  mothers  suffer  young  daugh 
ters  to  come  at  this  untimely  midnight  hour  to  drink  "  light 
wines,"  or  eat  ice  cream,  drugged  with  passion-exciting  vanilla. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !"  laughed  the  fiend  as  we  passed  on,  "  rag- 
picking  mothers  are  not  the  only  ones  who  traffic  away  the 
virtue  of  young  daughters  in  this  rum-flooded  city." 
,  "  What,"  said  I,  as  I  passed  on,  "if  all  the  mis-spent  shil 
lings,  worse  than  wasted  in  this  palace,  were  dropped  into  the 
treasury  of-the  House  of  Jndustry  ?" 

"  Cow  Bay,  Farlow's  Court,  and  Rotten  Row,  would  be  no 
more,  and  my  occupation  would  be  gone,"  said  the  fiend.  "  It 
must  not  be.  Dry  up  rum,  and  murder  would  <  easo  a  "id 
misery  have  no  home  here.  It  must  not  be.  Our  trade  is  in 
danger;  I  must  alarm  my  friends !" 

And  he  clattered  his  cloven  foot  down  the  steps  of  a  near 
by  cellar,  where  there  were  loud  sounds  of  blasphemous 
words,  the  noise  of  jingling  glasses,  and  much  wrangling, 
amid  which  I  heard  female  voices  in  one  of  the  "private 
rooms,"  and  then  an  order  for  more  wine — then  I  heard  old 


222  .  HOT    CORK. 

cloven  foot  say,  "give  them  a  bottle  of  two-and-sixpenny 
cider,  they  are  so  drunk  now  they  wont  know  the  odds." 

Then  I  understood  why  the  fiend  said  "  our  trade  " — it  is 
one  which  none  else  than  such  delight  in. 

I  listened  again.  There  was  an  awful  string  of  oaths 
coining  up  out  of  the  infernal  regions,  where  men  and  women 
— street-walkers — were  getting  drunk  upon  alcohol,  carbonic 
acid,  and  cider,  mixed  into  three  dollar  bottles  of  "  wine  " — 
pure  champagne. 

u  Give  me  my  pocket-book,  you " 

I  cannot  repeat  the  horrid  expletives.  Why  does  a  man 
call  a  woman  with  whom  he  associates,  such  vile  names? 
Why  does  the  woman  retort  upon  him  that  he  is  the  son  of  a 
female  dog,  and  call  upon  God  to  send  his  soul  to  perdition  ? 
Because  they  have  "tarried  long  at  the  wine;  have  looked 
upon  it  when  it  is  red,  when  it  giveth  its  color  in  the  cup." 
Now  "  it  biteth  like  a  serpent  and  stingeth  like  an  adder." 

Now  the  woman  has  picked  the  pocket  of  her  male  com 
panion — I  cannot  say  gentleman  ;  now  he  utters  those  terrible 
oaths ;  now  she  pours  out  such  a  stream  of  words  as  would 
pollute  the  very  air  where  virtue  lives;  now  there  is  a  struggle ; 
now  a  man  is  stabbed  by  a  woman ;  now  there  is  a  crash  of 
broken  glass,  a  female  street-walker  is  knocked  down  with  a 
bottle  in  the  hands  of  a  man  who  has  picked  her  up,  and 
whf.se  pockets  she  has  picked ;  surely  it  was  no  vision  of  the 
brain  that  fancied  we  saw  the  incarnate  fiend  go  down  there  ; 
now  there  is  a  cry  of  murder ;  now  there  is  a  rapping  of  clubs 
upon  the  pavement,  and  running  of  men  with  brass  stars  upon 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  223 

the  left  breast  of  tlieir  coats;  now  the  police  bear  up  a 
wounded  man — if  Madalina  was  here  her  wounded  breast 
would  ache  with  new  pain — she  is  avenged  at  last ;  no\v  they 
drag  up  a  woman,  a  young  girl,  on  Ler  way  to  the  Tombs — it 
is  Julia  Antrim. 

Drop  the  curtain.  Surely  you  would  not  look  into  a 
prison  cell,  or  go  into  the  police  court,  or  with  a  "  vagrant," 
not  yet  fourteen  years  old,  to  Randall's  Island.  In  some 
change  of  the  scene  you  may  see  her  again.  Quien  sabe  ? 

"  It  was  late  next  morning,"  said  Mr.  Pease,  "  when  I  woko 
up,  and  then  I  lay  in  a  sort  of  dreamy  reverie,  thinking  what 
a  world  of  good  I  could  do  if  I  had  plenty  of  means,  until 
near  ten  o'clock.  Finally,  I  heard  ail  uneasy  step  outside  my 
door  and  at  length  it  seemed  to  venture  to  approach,  and  then 
there  was  a  timid  rap." 

"  May  I  come  in  ?" 

"  Yes,  Tom,  come  in.     What  is  it,  Tom  1" 

"If  you  please,  sir,  I  want  to  go  away  to-day." 

''  Oh,  no,  Tom,-  don't  go  away  to-day,  you  remember  what 
you  promised  to  do  for  Madalina." 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  I  am  going  to  do  it.  I  am  going  to  see 
where  they  put  her,  and  then  I  will  plant  a  flower  there,  and 
I  will  water  it  too,  and  that  is  not  all,  either,  that  I  am  going 
to  do  with  water  before  I  die.  I  arn  going  to  teach  people  to 
drink  it,  and  not  drink  rum." 

"  Going  to  see  where  they  put  her  2" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Tom,  do  I  understand  you  2" 


224  HOT     COB2C. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,  she  did." 

"Tell  me,  my  boy,  what  you  mean.  You  seem  a  Terte 
wild,  your  eyes  are  very  red.  Did  you  sleep  any  last  night  f 

"  Sleep!  could  you  sleep,  with  those  words  ringing  >n  your 
ears  all  night  ?  Her  last  words — she  never  spoke  again." 

"  By  this  time  I  had  reached  the  window.  I  looked  out. 
There  was  a  "  poor  house  hearse "  in  Cow  Bay.  A  little 
coffin  was  brought  down  and  put  in,  and  it  moved  away.  It 
carried  "  the  Rag-picker's  Daughter." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  225 


CHAPTER  XII. 

ATHALIA,    THE    SEWING    GIRL. 

"Oftentimes,  to  win  us  to  our  harm, 
The  instruments  of  darkness  tell  us  truths  : 
Win  us  with  honest  trifles,  tft  betray  us 
In  deepest  consequence." 

AT  the  close  of  chapter  nine,  we  left  Athalia  standing  by 
the  side  of  her  trunk  and  bandbox  on  the  sidewalk,  in  front 
of  her  now  empty  home.  After  paying  up  the  rent,  and  a 
few  outstanding  little  bills,  she  had  but  a  scanty  store  left  in 
ner  little  purse.  Of  this  she  set  apart,  <is  a  sacred  deposit, 
almost  the  entire  sum,  to  redeem  her  Bible  and  watch — the 
locket  at  any  rate.  Now  she  wished  she  could  see  Nannette, 
for  she  was  the  only  instrument  she  knew,  that  she  could 
employ  in  the  negociation.  She  could  not  go  where  she  lived, 
for  fear  of  meeting  Walter,  whom  she  had  determined  never 
to  see  again.  She  had  sent  for  a  hack  to  take  her  away,  she 
really  knew  not  where.  She  had  but  few,  except  business 
acquaintances  in  the  city;  none  upon  whom  she  felt  willing 
to  call  in  her  emergency.  She  felt  so  cast  down,  that  she 
could  not  look  one  of  them  in  the  face.  She  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  go  to  a  hotel  for  the  night,  and  leave  the  city  in 
the  morning;  whither  she  knew  not;  anywhere  to  get  away, 
Then  she  thought  that  she  could  not  go  without  seeing  Nan 

10* 


226  HOT     CORN. 

nette,  and  making  an  effort  to  regain  her  valued  keepsakes 
How  should  she  see  her?  what  should  she  do? 

It  is  an  old  proverb,  "  Wish  for  the  devil  and  he  will  appear.71 
Just  then  a  carriage  drove  up  and  stopped  where  she  stood 
She  was  so  certain  it  was  the  one  she  had  sent  for,  that  she 
did  not  observe  that  it  contained  two  ladies,  until  the  driver 
had  opened  the  door,  and  one  of  them  spoke. 

."Why,  Mrs.  Morgan,  are  you  going  away?  How  unfortu 
nate.  I  wanted  three  or  f6"ur  dresses  made.  When  will  you 
be  back?" 

When  ?  How  could  she  tell,  since  she  did  not  know  where 
she  was  going  ?  She  was  in  a  fever  of  excitement  to  go  some 
where,  to  get  away  before  Walter  should  come.  She  felt  as 
though  it  would  kill  her  to  see  him  then. 

All  day  she  had  been  calm ;  she  had  found  it  absolutely 
necessary,  in  order  to  keep  herself  so,  to  drink  two  or  three 
glasses  of  wine.  If  it  had  been  wine,  such  as  the  fermented 
juice  of  grapes  will  make,  it  had  not  done  her  material  harm  ; 
but  it  was  such  as  is  made  in  this  city,  or  "  got  up  "  expressly 
for  this  market;  and  she  began  to  feel  the  effects  of  the 
alcohol  it  contained  dying  away.  She  felt  as  though  she  was 
dying,  too.  She  did  not,  therefore,  hesitate  long,  or  refuse  the 
pressing  invitation  of  Mrs.  Lay  lor  to  go  home  with  her  and 
stay  all  night.  Although  she  began  to  suspect  the  character 
of  Mrs.  Laylor's  house,  she  did  not  know  it,  or  her  either,  or 
she  would  have  spent  the  night  where  she  stood  rather  than 
in  her  best  room. 

She  was  still  further  induced  to  go,  when  she  found  that 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  227 

her  companion  was  Nannette.  .  True,  there  was  a  flash,  a  mere 
flash  of  thought  across  her  mind,  why  so  common  a  woman 
as  Nannette  should  be  in  the  carriage  of  so  reserved  a  lady ; 
one  who,  if  she  was  guilty  of  slight  improprieties  herself 
would  not  be  suspected  for  the  world,  and  had  no  charity  for 
the  inmates  of  houses  in  M street. 

Little,  thought  Athalia,  that  Nannette,  when  she  visited 
Mrs.  Laylor's,  passed  for  "  a  very  respectable  married  lady,  who 
would  not  be  known  for  anything — it  would  ruin  her ;"  or 
else,  when  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  with  a  thick  veil  over 
her  face,  which  nothing  could  induce  her  to  remove,  was  a 
"  very  interesting  young  widow,  of  one  of  the  first  families  in. 
the  city,  who  was  obliged,  by  necessity,  to  accept  the  love  of 
a  gentleman — a  married  gentleman — who  visited  her  house, 
but  would  not  make  the  acquaintance  of  any  woman  ex 
cept  one  in  just  such  a  condition  as  this  'sweet  young 
widow.' " 

I  know,  I  speak  it  boldly,  a  woman  now  living  in  this  city, 
in  up -town  style,  upon  money  obtained  from  six  dupes7  every 
one  of  whom  she  had  "on  a  string"  at  the  same  time,  and 
some  of  whom  she  used  to  meet  at  that  very  house,  under  just 
such  guises.  I  say  it,  still  more  boldly  and  truly,  for  "  old 
sores  must  be  seen  to  be  healed,"  that  she  has  thus  duped  the 
whole  six  in  one  day.  I  know  the  Woman — I  know  five  of 
the  dupes,  and  that  each  one  of  them  has  a  wife.  Two 
wear  the  title  of  Judge  ;  one  deals  in  flour ;  one  in  dry  goods ; 
and  one  has  another  employment  I  dare  not  speak  so  boldly 
of,  for  the  sake  of  his  children  and  unsuspecting  wife.  He 


228  noi    CORN. 

drives  fast  horses,   and  truth,  might  drive  a  good  woman  to 
despair. 

Athalia  little  suspected  all  this ;  still  less  did  she  suspect 
that  she  had  been  watched  all  day ;  that  her  order  for  a  car 
riage  even  had  been  intercepted,  and  Mrs.  Laylor*  had  come 
in  its  stead.  She  did  not  know  then  that  the  stable  owner 
was  the  paramour  of  Mrs.  Laylor,  and  Nannette  the  pimp  of 
this  most  dangerous  woman — dangerous,  because  she  struck 
her  game,  both  male  and  female,  out  of  the  upper  class  of 
society,  giving  them  a  fair  start  on  the  road  down  to  a  cellar 
in  Cow  Bay. 

We  have  seen  one  of  the  Morgan  family  that  she  started 
on  that  course,  who  run  a  swift  race.  She  is  now  fishing  for 
another — already  has  her  in  her  net,  for  she  has  ordered 
Cato  to  put  up  the  bagsrage — already  has  Athalia.  seated  by 
her  side,  condoling  with  her  in  her  afflictions,  giving  her  sweet 
sympathy,  telling  her  a  few  truths  and  many  lies — "  instru 
ments  of  darkness  "  win  by  such — wondering  how  she  could 
have  lived  with  her  bad  husband  so  long  as  she  had,  when 
she  could  live  so  much  better — "  by  the  needle  " — without  such 
a  man.  She  does  not  propose  another  now — of  course  not ; 
she  will  bide  her  time  for  that,  when  all  her  plots  have 
ripened  the  seed  she  is  now  sowing. 

They  were  soon  at  home ;  before  Athalia  had  half  done 
telling  how  fearful  she  was  of  meeting  Walter,  and  how  she 
wanted  to  get  out  of  town  before  he  discovered  her ;  and  then 
Mrs.  Laylor  told  her  how  very  private  she  could  be  at  her 
house — she  would  give  her  the  third  floor  back  room,  and 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  22C 

send  her  meals  up  to  her,  and  she  med  not  see  a  single  soul 
but  Nannette  and  herself,  besides  the  chamber-maid — "  none 
but  your  best  friends." 

Why  did  Mrs.  Laylor  whisper  Nannette,  and  why  did  she 
run  in  the  basement  way,  and  why  did  they  have  to  wait  ten 
minutes  for  the  door  to  be  opened  ?  And  where  was 
Athalia's  thick  veil,  with  which  she  had  intended  to  hide  her 
face  so  ihat  no  one  would  see  her,  for  the  excitement  of  the 
day  had  flushed  her  cheeks,  and  made  her  fascinatingly  beau 
tiful,  and  she  had  no  desire  to  expose  it  to  tempt  the  passion 
of  any  one  who  might  chance  to  meet  her  ? 

"  Where  can  my  veil  be,  I  am  sure  I  had  it  in  my  hand 
when  I  got  in  the  carriage  ?" 

"  I  cannot  see ;  perhaps  Nannette  has  gathered  it  up  with 
her  shawl."  ' 

So  she  had.  It  had  been  slipped  into  the  folds  of  it  on 
purpose,  for  Mrs.  Laylor  was  already  working  her  plans,  and 
counting  the  hundred  dollars  that  she  was  going  to  charge 
some  rich  fool  for  bringing  about  a  meeting  with  "  one  of  tho 
handsomest  women  in  the  city — a  dress-maker,  fresh  from  the 
country."  In  furtherance  of  this  object  of  a  wicked  woman, 
in  pursuit  of  gain,  she  had  sent  Nannette  into  the  house,  to 
station  one  of  her  dupes  where  he  could  see,  without  being 
seen,  the  unveiled  face  of  Athalia,  as  she  passed  in,  and 
up  the  stairs.  For  this  purpose,  the  usually  dark  hall  had 
been  lighted,  and  the  veil  stolen.  ,r^ 

"  None  but  friends,"  there. 

The  victim  that  Nannette  went  to  put  in  place,  was  a  young 


230  noT   CORN. 

clergyman,  like  other  men  in  the  vigor  of  youth,  possessed  of 
like  passions.  He  would  have  sought  a  wife,  but  his  salary 
would  not  support  one  in  the  style  that  she  would  demand,  or 
his  congregation  expect  their  pastor  to  maintain ;  and  so  he 
sought  indulgence  where  he  had  found  out  accidentally  that 
some  of  the  members  of  his  own  church  had  sought  it  for 
themselves. 

He  had  slipped  in,  with  handkerchief  over  his  face,  just 
before  Mrs.  Laylor  went  out.  She  told  him  that  she  was 
going  to  the  railroad  depot  to  meet  a  young  woman  from  the 
country,  a  dress-maker,  whom  she  had  sent  for,  to  come  and 
make  a  few  dresses  for  her  and  "  my  daughter,"  as  she 
unblushingly,  called  Nannette,  who,  she  said,  "  had  been 
away  from  home,  at  school." 

The  words  were  true,  yet  the  speech  was  a  lie,  a  wicked  lie, 
made  to  deceive  one  who  had  been  unwary  enough  to  put  his 
finger  in  a  trap.  She  had  been  away  from  home,  a  home 
where  she  left  a  mother,  and  brothers,  and  sisters.  And  she 
had  been  at  school — a  school  where  language  and  manners 
are  taught ;  but,  oh  !  what  language,  and  what  ways,  and 
manners.  It  is  a  school  which  is  computed  to  have  thirty 
thousand  teachers  in  this  city. 

What  strange  inconsistencies  our  human  nature  is  possessed 
of.  This  Nannette  had  naturally  a  good  heart.  We  saw  that 
in  the  scene  where  Mrs.  Morgan  discovers  the  depth  of 
depravity  to  which -one  of  those  teachers  had  dragged  down 
her  husband.  Yet,  no  sooner  is  Athalia  placed  by  misfor 
tune  in  a  position  to  be  subject  to  temptation,  than  she  offers 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  231 

her  gratuitous  services  to  Mrs.  Laylor,  to  effect  her  complete 
ruin.  What  for  ?  Who  can  answer  ?  I  cannot,  unless  the 
fable  of  the  fox  that  lost,  his  tail  in  a  trap,  will  give  a  cue  to 
the  solution.  I  fear,  that  we  are  too  apt  to  wish  others  no 
better  than  ourselves.  It  must  have  been  some  such  motive 
that  actuated  Nannette :  the  little  pecuniary  advantage 
offered  by  Mrs.  Laylor  for  her  assistance,  does  not  seem  to  be 
a  sufficient  motive  for-one  female,  though  she  herself  has  lost 
the  priceless  jewel  of  female  virtue,  to  wish  to  bring  another 
of  her  sex  into  that  vortex  which  engulfs  all  who  come 
within  its  maelstrom  power,  as  certain  as  that  upon  the 
Norway  coast.  Be  the  motive  what  it  may,  she  had  cer 
tainly  lent  herself  this  day,  as  a  willing  tool,  to  do  a  double 
deed  of  wrong. 

1  cannot  name  tho  clergyman  who  was  to  be  made — had 
been  made — the  victim  in  this  nefarious  plot,  because  he  is 
still  living,  and  has  paid  the  penalty  of  ruined  health  for 
visiting  such  a  house,  and  a  still  greater  penalty -of  a  gnawing 
conscience  for  the  sin,  and  the  lies  told  to  cover  it  up. 

As  a  nom  de  plume,  I  will  call  him,  Otis,  because  it  is  the 
most  dissimilar  to  his  own,  of  any  one  I  can  think  of. 

Otis  had  been  tempted  to  visit  this  house,  as  I  said  before, 
by  a  natural  strong  passion,  but  that  would  have  been  insuffi 
cient,  had  not  a  sort  of  Paul  Pry  friend  told  him  of  the 
delinquency  of  one  of  his  flock,  and  urged  him  to  watch  him, 
He  did  so,  saw  him  enter  the  house  with  a  woman,  certainly 
not  his  wife,  charged  him  afterwards,  with  a  view  to  his  refor 
mation,  and  was  met  with  a  plump  denial  of  the  character  of 


232  HOT     CORN. 

tlie  place,  and  even  threatened  with  exposure  of  his  attempt 
to  watch  and  pry  into  other  peoples'  business.  Goaded  "with 
such  an  accusation,  he  retorted  upon  his  informer,  and  he  in 
his  turn  reiterated  the  charge,  and  urged  Otis  to  "  call  on  a 
professional  (that  is  pastoral)  visit,"  and  satisfy  himself. 

This  he  did,  and  found  the  house  most  genteelly  and  richly 
furnished  *  the  owner,  "  a  widow,  living,"  she  said,  "  upon  the 
interest  of  money  in  bank," — she  meant  the  interest  of 
bankers'  money — a  very  modest,  genteel  lady,  very  much 
pleased  to  have  him  call,  and  begged  him  to  repeat  the  visit 
"some  afternoon  or  evening  when  the  young  ladies,  her 
nieces  and  daughter,  would  be  at  home,  and  if  he  was  fond 
of  music,  they  would  play  for  him,  and  one  of  them  could 
sing  beautifully."  She  could  sing  the  "  Mermaid's  song." 
lie  was  completely  deceived.  Who  might  not  be  by  such  a 
siren  ?  The  truth  is,  that  her  penetrating  eye  had  seen  at  a 
glance  quite  down  into  his  very  secret  thoughts,  and  that  he 
possessed  passions  which  she  could  inflame  and  turn  to 
account,  and  she  laid  all  her  plans  to  that  end.  Although 
satisfied,  after  one  or  two  visits,  that  all  the  inmates  of  the 
house  were  correct,  he  had  his  suspicions  aroused  as  to  those 
who  visited  them,  for  he  could  not  help  noticing  the  fact,  that 
while  he  was  there  one  evening,  there  were  no  less  than  five 
cajls,  apparently  of  couples,  who  were  received  in  a  dark  hall, 
with  whispered  words,  and  then  went  upstairs,  and  after 
awhile  went  out  in  the  same  quiet  way.  Twice,  he  saw 
through  the  crack  of  the  door  that  the  ladies  were  veiled  with 
thick  dark  veils,  such  as  we  meet  every  day  upon  the  Broad- 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  233 

way  side-walk.  But  the  most  convincing  thing  trf  all,  was 
an  incautious  word  spoken  aloud  by  one  of  the  visitors  as 
Mrs.  Laylor  was  letting  him  out.  He  knew  the  voice.  It 
was  the  man  whose  .conduct  had  led  him  first  to  this  house. 
Thjen  he  was  so  well  satisfied,  that  he  told  Mis.  Laylor  his 
suspicions,  and  she  acknowledged  that  she  did  sometimes  let 
a  room  to  a  gentleman  and  lady,  but  to  none  except  persons 
of  the  highest  respectability,  such  as  himself,  for  instance. 
That  was  a  cue.  He  took  it  and  fell  into  the  snare.  She 
agreed  "  for  a  consideration,"  to  introduce  him  to  one  of  the 
most  respectable  ladies,  upon  the  understanding  that  she  was 
to  remain  closely  veiled, — as  the  whole  proceeding  was  to  bo 
veiled  from  the  Argus  eyes  of  the  world. 

The  "  respectable  lady "  was  drawn  from  the  same  house 
to  which  we  have  before  had  an  introduction ;  in  short, 
she  was  the  same  "lady"  in  whose  room  Athalia  saw  her 
husband  from  Nannette's  room.  With  Otis  she  played  the 
part  of  "  clergyman's  widow,"  and  for  that  purpose  always 
dressed  in  deep  mourning,  just  as  her  sisters  in  sin  do  now 
every  day  in  the  fashionable  promenades  of  this  city ;  and  she 
played  it  well,  until  one  night,  after  having  taken  one  bottle 
extra  between  them,  for.  he  had  not  yet  learned  that  wine 
drinking  was  but  little  better  than  whiskey  drinking,  "  she  let 
out  on  him,"  in  such  a  manner  that  his  eyes  were  opened,  and 
he  determined  to  leave  the  house.  But  he  had  tasted  sin,  and 
who  that  has,  but  well  knows  how  much  harder  it  is  afterwards 
to  icsist  the  temptation  ? 

So  he  came  back.     What  an  excuse  he  made  to  conscience 


234  HOT     CORN. 

as  he  did  so  ! — That  it  was  only  to  upbraid  the  woman  foi 
deceiving  him.  He  deceived  himself.  First,  in  trusting  Jiim- 
self  in  a  deceitful  woman's  power  ;  and,  secondly,  in  supposing 
that  after  she  had  deceived  him  once,  she  would  not  again. 
This  last  visit  was  upon  the  very  night  in  which  Athalia  was 
introduced  into  the  house,  and  hence  the  lies  to  inflame  his 
mind,  and  the  art  made  use  of  to  give  him  a  stolen  glance  of 
her  face. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  the  first  man  fell,  when  "tempted  of  a 
woman."  It  is  idle  to  talk  of  our  power  to  withstand  their 
seductive  arts.  Otis  was  entrapped  again.  The  sight  of 
Athalia's  beauty  inflamed  his  already  wine-heated  blood,  and 
he  readily  offered  Mrs.  Laylor  a  hundred  dollars  to  bring 
about  a  successful  negociation.  This  was  just  what  she 
intended — what  she  expected — she  had  baited  her  trap  high, 
and  the  game  was  already  caught.  And  he  was  not  the  only 
one  she  intended  to  catch  with  the  same  bait.  She  intended 
to  use  her  as  a  profitable  investment  upon  all  her  "  regular 
customers  " — for  all  such  houses  boast  of  such — as  long  as%he 
could  make  the  lie  of  "  fresh  from  the  country,"  pass  as  cur 
rent  coin.  She  little  thought,  and  cared  less,  how  many  lies 
she  had  to  contrive  and  tell  Athalia,  .before  she  could  accom 
plish  her  purpose.  It  does  seem  as  though,  when  a  woman 
loses  her  own  virtue,  that  she  imagines  all  her  sex  have  lost 
or  would  lose  theirs  just  as  easy  as  herself. 

"  I  drag  down,"  should  be  graven  upon  the  brow  of  every 
one  of  her  class.  Whether  man  or  woman,  whoever  cornea 
within  their  influence — and  who  does  not,  since  they  are  per- 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  235 

milled  to  go  forth  at  noonday  th/ough  the  thoroughfares  of 
Ihis  city,  seeking  whom  they  may  devour,  and  all  night  long 
they  show  their  brazen  faces  in  the  streets,  "  picking  up  "  poor 
fools  for  victims,  whom  they  drag  down — true,  they  go  will- 
ii  gly — to  their  dens  of  destruction. 

It  doee  seem  as  though  when  a  man  loses  his  balance  so  far 
as  to  fall  into  the  influence  of  such  a  woman,  that  he  is  "ready 
to  believe  a  lie  even  unto  his  own  damnation."  How  else 
could  Walter  Morgan — there  are  a  great  many  Walter  Mor 
gans — leave  such  a  wife  as  Athalia  for  such  a  Jezebel  as  he 
did  ?  How  else  did  such  a  man  as  Otis,  whose  business  it 
was  to  watch  the  fold,  allow  the  wolf  to  enter  and  carry  off 
the  shepherd  ?  Why,  after  he  had  found  out  how  much  he 
had  been  cheated,  did  he  believe  the  lies  of  the  cheat  again  ? 
Who  can  answer  ?  I  cannot.  I  can  only  say,  that  in  this 
branch  of  intoxication,  the  only  safe  rule  is  that  of  the  teeto 
taller,  "  touch  not,  taste  not,  handle  not ;"  and  it  must  be  more 
rigidly  applied  in  the  one  case  than  the  other.  A  man  may 
possibly  touch  liquor  and  drink  not.  Can  he  play  with  a 
harlot  and  not  fall  ?  Otis  should  have  preached  a  sermon, 
not  to  his  congregation,  but  to  his  own  conscience  in  his  own 
closet,  from  this  text : 

"  For  a  whore  is  a  deep  ditch  :  and  a  strange  woman  is  a 
narrow  pit, 

"She  also  lieth  in  wait  is  for  a  prey,  and  increaseth  the 
transgressions  among  men." 

She  certainly  had  increased  the  transgressions  in  the  case 
of  Otis,  and  she  lay  in  wait  for  Athalia  as  a  prey. 


236  HOT     CORN. 

Otis  would  have  sought  an  introduction  immediately,  for 
wine  had  mastered  reason  ;  wine,  that  is  made  expressly  for 
such  houses,  had  inflamed  his  blood. 

This  the  master-piece  of  iniquity  knew  would  never  answer. 
13ut  she  promised  him  that  for  the  sum  named,  she  would 
bring  about  the  desired  interview. 

u  To-night  ?" 

"  Yes.     At  least  she  would  try." 

u  To-night  or  never !  To-night  is  the  last  night  that  I  shall 
ever  set  foot  in  your  house.  I  have  registered  a  vow  in  heaven 
to  that,  and  I  will  keep  it." 

So  he  did.     lie  had  good  cause  to  remember  that  night. 

Mrs.  Laylor  saw  that  he  looked  as  though  he  intended  to 
keep  it,  and  as  he  had  been  fool  enough  to  tell  her  so,  she  at 
once  determined  to  fool  him  to  her  own  profit.  So  she  pro 
mised  him  that  he  should  have  his  utmost  desire,  and  upon 
that  she  ordered  up  another  bottle  of  wine,  urged  him  to  drink 
and  amuse  himself  with  the  young  ladies,  while  she  went  up 
and  "  smoothed  the  way." 

There  is  but  little  need  of  smoothing  the  way  that  leads 
nearly  every  young  man,  who  visits  such  places,  to  destruction. 
But  she  had  a  way  to  smooth.  It  was  her  last  chance  with 
this  victim,  and  she  determined  on  profit  and  revenge. 

In  due  time  she  came  in,  and  reported  favorably. 

"  The  kdy  would  see  him,  in  con.  deration  of  his  profession, 
upon  one  condition — that  he  would  not  seek  to  learn  her 
name,  or  anything  about  her,  and  that  he  should  not  see  her 
face." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  237 

"What  did  he  care  for  that,  since  he  had  already  seen  it, 
and  it  was  daguerreotyped  upon  his  heated  imagination,  so 
that  he  would  know  her  whenever  he  should  meet  her  after 
wards  in  the  street. 

Let  the  curtain  of  night  fall.  The  sun  shone  into  an  eastern 

window  of  No.  —  II n  street  the  next  morning,  while 

Otis  still  slept.  Its  bright  rays  awakened  him  to  the  startling 
consciousness  of  having  over-slept  himself  after  a  night  of 
debauch.  How  should  he  get  away  without  being  seen? 
The  thought  troubled  him  sorely.  But  he  soon  determined 
what  he  would  do  ;  he  would  steal  the  veil  from  the  face  of 
the  sleeping  beauty  to  hide  his  own,  and  then  slip  out  by  the 
basement  door,  perhaps  unseen.  What  harm  could  it  do  to 
her,  since  he  had  seen  and  ^new  the  face  so  well  ? 

lie  dressed  himself  hurriedly,  then  gently  drew  the  veil 
away,  with  a  salvo  to  his  conscience  that  he  would  not  then 
see  her  face,  he  would  look  the  other  way.  His  conscience 
would  have  been  more  easy  afterwards  if  he  had  kept  that 
resolve.  He  could  not.  The  glance  at  Athalia's  beauty  the 
night  before  had  maddened  him,  and  he  turned,  as  he  was 
going  out  of  the  door,  to  look  back  where  she  slept,  and  steal 
— "Thou  shalt  not  steal" — he  had  forgotten  that — steal  one 
more  glance.  He  did,  but  instead  of  the  face  of  Athalia,  he 
saw  that  of  a  common  street-walker — a  young  harridan — and 
he  rushed  from  the  room  with  the  full  weight  of  a  burning 
conscience  for  his  folly,  with  a  feeling  of  self-degradation  at 
being  victimized  a  second  time  by  the  same  deceitful  woman  ; 
hating  himself  and  everybody  else ;  dreading  to  meet  any  one 


238  HOT    CORN. 

he  knew,  and,  finally,  encountering  in  the  basement  Lall, 
striving  to  get  out  in  the  same  sly  way,  the  very  man  whom 
he  had  first  taken  to  task  for  visiting  this  den  of  infamy. 
What  a  recognition !  Neither  could  speak,  so  intense  was 
the  thought  in  the  mind  of  each  that  the  other  might  ruin 
him  by  simply  revealing  the  truth.  Strange  that  neither 
thought  how  little  the  other  would  dare  to  speak,  least  it 
should  be  inquired,  "  How  did  you  know  he  was  there  ? 
Where  was  you  ?" 

Otis  said  afterwards  to  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  a  physi 
cian,  whom  he  was  obliged  to  consult  in  consequence  of  that 
sinful  night,  that  he  could  not  conceive  any  agony  more 
intensely  painful  in  this  life  than  that  which  he  endured  the 
next  Sabbath,  when  he  arose  in  the  pulpit  and  looked  down 
upon  the  congregation,  but  saw  nothing,  could  see  nothing, 
but  that  one  pair  of  eyes  glaring  upon  him  just  as  they  did 
the  morning  he  met  them  in  the  hall  of  that  house  where  he 
had  been  so  disgraced. 

"I  little  knew  then,"  said  he,  "as  I  did  afterwards,  that  he 
felt  just  as  bad  as  I  did,  for  he  told  me  that  it  seemed  to  him 
that  I  was  about  to  denounce  him  to  the  whole  congregation. 
So  intense  had  this  feeling  become,  that  he  was  on  the  point 
of  seizing  his  hat  and  rushing  ort  when  the  words  burst  from 
my  lips,  'if  thou  knowest  aught  of  thy  brother's  failing,  cover 
it  up  from  the  rude  gaze  of  the  woild,  for  it  can  profit  them 
nothing  to  know  of  Ins  faults.' 

"'Go  to  him  privately  and  speak  U.ully,  and  he  will  reform  !' 
So  he  did,  to  our  mutual  benefit." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  239 

This  relieved  the  mind  of  Otis,  but  it  did  not  save  him  from 
the  sad  effect  of  a  poisoned,  neglected  system,  but  it  cured 
him  from  visiting  places  where  he  was  ashamed  to  show  his 
face.  It  taught  him  that  "the  way  of  the  transgressor  is 
hard."  He  had  one  more  trial.  He  had  not  paid  Mrs. 
Laylor  the  hundred  dollars  promised  while  heated  with  wine, 
for  he  felt  that  she  was  not  entitled  to  it,  and  he  had  no  such 
sum  to  spare.  Late  one  Saturday  night  he  received  a  note 
from  the  lady,  requesting  immediate  payment,  and  threatening 
exposure  in  church  the  next  day  if  he  failed  to  make  it 
instanter.  He  had  not  so  much  money  in  the  world,  and  knew 
no  way  by  which  he  could  get  it  immediately.  He  was  in 
an  agony  of  fear  all  the  evening.  The  only  man  to  whom 
he  dared  apply  either  for  money  or  advice,  the  man  who  was 
equally  guilty,  was  out  of  town.  What  should  he  do  ?  He 
did  what  every  Christian  should  do.  He  opened  his  Bible, 
and  the  first  words,  that  his  eyes  fell  upon  were,  "  ask  and  it 
shall  be  given  you." 

He  did  ask,  and  ask  earnestly,  what  shall  I  do  ?  Before  he 
had  done  asking,  the  door  bell  rang  and  a  letter  marked 
"  private — by  express,"  was  laid  upon  his  table.  A  glance  at 
the  superscription  told  him  it  was  from  the  man  he  was  so 
anxious  to  see. 

He  opened  and  read : 

"Mv  DEAR  FRIEND  OTIS, 

I  have  had  a  sort  of    presentiment  upon  my  mind  that  you 
vrere  about  to  be  distressed  for  that  hundred  dollars,  and  as  I  am  well 
that  you  never  would  have  been  placed  in  jeopardy  if  I  had  not 


240  HOT     COEN. 

first  done  wrong,  I   beg  you  to  accept  the   enclosed  check  for  that 
amount. 
•  "I  need  not  say  who  it  is  from." 

How  strange,  how  opportune?-  how  quick  the  answer  to  his 
asking  had  come  back.  What  a  load  it  lifted  off  his  mind. 
It  is  not  the  first  load  that  prayer,  earnest,  sincere  prayer,  has 
lifted.  He  was  relieved  in  more  ways  than  one;  he  had 
repented  of  his  folly,  and  had  become  a  better  and  a  wiser 
man.  Gold  is  refined  of  its  adhering  dross  by  fire.  Otis  still 
lives,  and  every  day  he  warns  some  one,  not  only  of  the  folly 
and  sin,  but  the  danger,  of  visiting  that  class  of  houses,  if  only 
from  curiosity.  They  are  all  traps  for  the  unwary,  and  gulfs 
into  which  the  soul  sinks  blindfold  down  to  perdition. 

We  have  lost  sight  of  Athalia.  Let  us  return  to  her — she 
will  need  all  our  sympathy,  for  she  stands  upon  the  very 
blink  of^a  precipice,  over  which  though  many  have  fallen, 
few  ever  returned. 

Mrs.  Laylor  manifested  the  greatest  sympathy  for  Athalia 
that  one  friend  could  for  another*  She  gave  her  the  most 
private  room  in  the  house,  and  assured  her  that  she  should  be 
welcome  to  it  just  as  long  as  she  pleased  ;  "  but  of  course," 
she  said,  "  you  will  not  remain  a  moment,  after  you  get  your 
things  from  that  wicked  woman.  Now  what  can  I  do  to 
assist  you  ?" 

This  was  said  in  such  a  kind,  sympathizing  manner,  that  a 
more  suspicious  mind  than  hers  might  have  been  deceived ; 
and  she  answered,  "  Oh,  you  can  do  a  good  deal.  I  ain 
afraid  to  go  out,  particularly  to  go  to  that  house,  or  thui 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  241 

woman,    and   I   want   my  keepsakes.     I   have   got   seventy 
dollars,  and  I  will  give  it  freely  if  I  can  get  them  again." 

She  did  not  see  the  glisten  of  the  eye,  or  the  avaricious 
clutch  of  the  hand,  as  that  miserly  woman  thought,  "I  will 
have  that."  She  only  heard  the  soft  tones  of  her  voice  as  she 
said,  "my  dear  Mrs.  Morgan,  I  will  take  it  and  see  what  1 
can  do,  but  I  am  really  afraid  it  is  not  sufficient  to  induce  her 
to  part  with  them,  as  you  say  they  are  actually  worth  more 
money." 

"What  shall  I  do  then  ?  I  feel  as  though  I  could  not  part 
with  them,  and  in  such  a  way  too,  that  is  worse  than  all.  I 
would  have  sacrificed  them  in  a  moment  for  that  man,  if  he 
had  been  sick  and  suffering,  for  want  of  food  or  medicine." 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear  friend,  do  not  worry  yourself.  Re 
member  that  you  have  friends,  kind  sympathizing  friends,  who 
will  do  more  for  you  than  they  would  for  themselves.  I  will 
go  directly  and  see  what  can  be  done  if  you  will  give  me  the 
money." 

So  she  did,  and  by  dint  of  threats,  and  coaxing,  and 
promises  to  Josephine,  to  try  and  get  something  out  of  "  the 
poor  fool's  wife,"  for  her,  she  gave  them  up,  and  Mrs.  Laylor, 
before  night,  had  them  safely  locked  in  her  own  iron  chest. 

"  Why  did  she  not  give  them  to  Athalia  at  once  ?" 

Simply,  because  she  intended  to  keep  both  money  and 
things.  So  she  told  Athalia,  that  Josephine  had  not  yet 
returned  from  Coney  Island,  where  she  knew  she  had  gone 
her  husband,  wearing  her  watch,  passing  for  his  wife, 


242  HOT     CORN. 

spending  her  money,  which  he  had  collected  foi  the  making 
of  the  dress  that  he  had  stolen  away  without  her  knowledge. 

But  she  had  come  back ;  where  was  Walter  ? 

Somewhere  with  his  set.  He  had  not  yet  dared  to  face  his 
injured  wife.  He  intended  to  skulk  home  late  at  night.  In 
the  evening  he  went  to  see  his  dear,  sweet,  amiable  mistress. 
She  was  in  about  the  same  state  of  mind  after  Mrs.  Laylor 
left  her,  that  a  female  tiger  would  be,  on  arriving  at  her  lair, 
after  a  little  pleasure  excursion,  in  which  she  might  have 
killed  a  couple  of  Indian  children,  but  was  driven  off  before 
her  appetite  for  blood  was  satisfied,  and  now  found  that  some 
other  equally  ferocious  animal  had  despoiled  her  of  her  own 
young. 

Walter  and  she  had  had  "  a  good  time"  together,  and  parted 
lovingly  only  a  few  hours  before.  How  he  was  surprised  as 
he  entered  her  room  carelessly,  to  hear  her  tell  him  with  a 
terrible  oath — oaths  are  ten  times  more  terrible  in  woman's 
than  in  man's  mouth — to  leave  the  room  or  she  would  take 
his  life.  At  first,  he  thought  she  was  in  sport.  One  look 
was  enough  to  convince  him  of  his  error.  Then  he  thought 
she  was  mad,  because  he  had  entered  without  knocking,  and 
found  her  engaged  in  dressing  for  the  evening  debaucn  and 
usual  scenes  of  dissipation,  and  began  to  rally  her  on  her 
Eve-like  appearance. 

That  was  more  than  some  more  amiable  women  can  beai. 
No  matter  how  ill  dressed  or  undressed,  a  woman  does  not 
like  to  be  rallied  on  her  personal  appearance. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  243 

It  was  more  than  such  a  human  tiger  cowld,  or  would  bear. 
She  darted  at  him,  and  proceeded  vigorously  in  the  task  of 
reducing  him  to  the  same  state,  so  far  as  his  toilet  was  con 
cerned,  as  herself.  It  did  not  take  long.  First,  she  crushed 
his  hat.  His  dress  coat  was  fine,  and  it  was  tender,  for  it 
was  old,  and  she  tore  it  into  ribbons,  in  an  instant.  His  vest 
and  shirt  followed,  and  she  made  vigorous  efforts  at  the 
remaining  garment,  and  then  he  broke  and  ran  from  the  wild 
fury.  She  overtook  him  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  gave 
him  a  vigorous  kick,  that  sent  him,  naked  and  insensible, 
down  to  the  lower  hall,  where  he  was  picked  up  by  the 
police,  and  carried  to  the  station  house ;  there  he  had  his 
bruises  attended  to,  and  there  he  would  have  got  a  passport 
to  "  the  Island,"  only  that  he  happened  to  be  known,  and 
when  he  told  where  he  lived,  one  of  the  officers  said,  that 
was  the  fact,  that  he  knew  his  wife,  and  a  most  excellent 
woman  she  was,  and  it  would  be  a  pity,  on  her  account,  to 
send  him  up  this  time,  and  so  he  volunteered  to  go  home 
with  him,  and  get  some  clothes  and  see  what  his  wife  wanted 
done  with  him.  Walter  found  his  trunk  and  all  that  he  could 
claim  as  his  own — it  was  not  much,  hardly  enough  for  present 
necessity — where  Athalia  had  left  it,  in  the  next-door  shop, 
and  there  he  learned  the  facts  about  the  sale,  and  his  wife 
going  off  in  a  carriage  with  two  ladies,  and  a  Negro  driver ; 
but  he  did  not  learn  why  she  had  gone,  he  needed  no  words 
to  tell  him  that,  a  monitor  within  spoke  louder  than  words. 

"  A  guilty  conscience  needs  no  accuser." 

What  should  he  do  ?     It  is  easy  to  say  what  a  man  should 


244  HOT     CORN. 

do.  He  should  go  and  find  his  wife,  and  fall  down  upon  his 
knees ;  yes,  bow  his  face  into  the  dust,  pray  for  forgiveness, 
and  promise  reform.  And  he  would  be  forgiven.  That  is 
woman's  nature.  The  Forgiver  of  all  sins,  is  not  more  for 
giving. 

"  What  did  he  do  ?" 

That  is  just  as  easy  said.  He  sold  his  last  good  shirt — 
one  that  his  wife  had  just  made — to  procure  the  means  of 
getting  drunk. 

"  What  a  pity  that  there  should  be  any  places  where  such 
a  man  could  get  liquor ;  or  that  such  places,  if  they  do  exist, 
should  be  kept  by  wretches  who  will  take  the  shirt  off  the 
back  of  the  poor  inebriate  for  rum." 

Yes,  it  is  a  pity.  It  is  the  cause  of  ruin  of  more  men  than 
all  other  causes. 

From  this  last  fall  Walter  never  recovered.  He  went  down, 
step  by  step,  to  the  final  termination  of  almost  every  young 
man  who  surrenders  his  reason  to  such  vile  influences.  You 
heard  Reagan  say  what  that  end  was.  Let  his  epitaph  be, 

"  Reauiescat  in  Pace." 

With  various  excuses,  Athalia  was  kept  in  daily  expecta 
tion  of  recovering  her  property,  until  cortinued  disappoint 
ment  made  her  heart  sick.  In  vain  she  begged  for  something 
to  do.  Everyday  it  was  promised,  and  every  day  the  promise 
broken.  She  was  kept  from  going  out  of  the  house  by  con 
tinual  tales  about  her  husband  watching  it  day  after  day,  and 
uight  after  night.  Of  course  this  was  all  sham.  He  had 


LIFE     SCENES    IN    NEW    YORK.  245 

been  told  that  she  had  gone  out  of  town,  and  he  believed 
it ;  he  never  got  sober  enough  to  think  of  inquiring  or  curing 
whether  she  was  dead  or  alive. 

Finally,  when  Athalia  could  not  be  kept  any  longer  upon 
such  lying  promises,  Mrs.  Laylor  told  her  "  that  she  had  finally 
got  Josephine  to  consent  to  give  up  the  watch,  and  chain,  and 
locket,  and  the  Bible,  for  a  hundred  dollars." 

Where  was  the  poor  girl  to  get  the  other  thirty.  She 
knew  it  was  more  than  they  were  worth  to  anybody  else,  but 
she  felt  as  though  she  would  give  it  freely  if  she  had  it.  To 
add  to  her  distress  of  mind,  just  at  this  time  she  overheard  a 
conversation  in  the  next  room  between  Mrs.  Laylor  and  one 
of  the  girls — it  was  got  up  on  purpose — to  this  effect : 

"  To  be  sure  she  will  pay  for  her  board.  Of  course  she 
cannot  expect  to  have  the  best  room  in  the  house  ten  weeks 
for  nothing.  But  I  shall  only  charge  her  seven  dollars  a 
week." 

u  Seven  dollars !"  thought  Athalia ;  "  that  takes  the  whole 
of  my  seventy  dollars,  and  my  watch  and  Bible  still  remain 

in  the  hands  of  that  red-headed Oh,  dear !  what  shall  I 

do?" 

The  two  continued  their  conversation. 

"  But,  Aunt,  you  have  promised  to  give  that  seventy  dollars, 
and  thirty  more  with  it,  to  redeem  her  traps ;  how  are  you 
going  to  get  seventy  dollars  more  ?  or  if  you  take  that  for  her 
board,  ^nd  let  the  watch  go,  what  is  she  going  to  do  in  future  ? 
she  has  got  no  money,  and  doij't  work  any." 

"Don't  work  any,"  thought  she.     "How  can  I  work  shut 


246  HOT     CORN. 

up  here  ?  I  would  work,  if  I  had  it  to  do.  I  could  have 
earned  that  sum  before  this  time."  And  again  she  said  "  Oh 
dear  !  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

It  was  just  what  they  wanted  she  should  say.  Mrs.  Laylor 
replied : 

"  Do !  Why,  she  must  do  what  other  folks  have  to  do. 
Frank  Barkley  is  dying  to  do  for  her,  the  fool  that  she  is ;  he 
would. give  her  any  amount  of  money,  if  she  would  be  a  little 
more  agreeable  when  he  calls.  It  was  a  Jong  time  before  I 
could  persuade  her  to  drink  a  glass  of  wine  with  him.  Some 
girls  would  have  helped  me  to  sell  two  or  three  bottles  every 
evening.  I  sLall  tell  her  to-day  that  she  has  got  to  do  some 
thing.  I  cannot  keep  anybody  in  the  house  this  way  much 
longer." 

What  a  dose  of  gall  and  wormwood  was  this  to  poor  Atha  • 
lia !  This  was  boasted  friendship.  Forced  by  one  specious- 
pretence  after  another  to  remain ;  purposely  kept  without  work, 
that  she  might  get  in  debt,  for  that  would  put  her  in  her 
creditor's  power ;  and  robbed  of  her  money — worse  than 
robbed  ;  and  yet  she  was  only  served  just  as  innumerable  poor 
girls  have  been  served  before,  and  will  be  again ;  it  was 
enough  to  make  her  cry  out,  "  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

And  then  to  be  accused  of  being  ungrateful.  That  was 
worse  than  all.  Then  she  thought  that  perhaps  she  had  been. 
Mrs.  Laylor  had  told  her  several  times  how  much  wine  some 
girls  could  induce  gentlemen  to  buy,  and  how  much  profit  she 
yiade  upon  every  bottle ;  and  more  than  that,  she  had  hinted 
eery  strongly  how  much  money  such  a  handsome  woman  as 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  247 

A.thalia  could  make,  if  she  was  disposed  to ;  and  then  she  told 
a  story  about  a  young  clergyman  that  used  to  come  there,  and 
what  a  great  fool  he  was  when  he  drank  a  little  wine,  and' 
how  she  made  a  hundred  dollars  out  of  the  simpleton,  and  a 
great  deal  more ;  but  she  did  not  tell  her  how  she  cLeated 
him,  nor  how  she  had  cheated  Athalia  out  of  her  seventy 
dollars,  nor  that  Frank  Barkley  had  paid  her  board,  which 
she  was  now  trumping  up  an  account  for,  so  as  to  drive  her  to 
the  seeming  necessity  of  selling  her  body  and  soul  to  escape 
from  the  tangled  web  which  this  human  spider  was  weaving 
around  this  poor  weak  fly. 

In  the  course  of  the  day,  after  this  overheard  conversation, 
Mrs.  Laylor  came  to  tell  Athalia  "  that  she  had  succeeded  at 
last  in  obtaining  her  watch  and  Bible,  by  paying  thirty  dollars 
out  of  her  own  pocket,  although  she  did  not  know  how  in 
the  world  to  spare  it,  but  she  supposed  Mrs.  Morgan  would 
repay  it  almost  immediately." 

Repay  it !  How  could  she  ?  And  so  she  said  bitterly  that 
she  had  no  hope.  Her  heart  was  almost  broken.  Mrs. 
Laylor,  of  course,  condoled  with  her,  soothed  her,  reassured 
her  of  her  pure  friendship,  took  out  the  watch  and  put  the 
chain  over  her  neck,  sent  down  and  had  the  Bible  brought 
up,  and  with  it  a  bottle  of  wine,  one  of  the  half  brandy  sort, 
and  insisted  upon  her  drinking  of  it  freely,  and  driving  off 
the  blues ;  and  then,  after  she  had  got  her  into  a  state  of 
partial  intoxication,  and  fit  for  any  act  of  desperation,  sent  for 
Frank  Barkley,  who  had  just  arrived,  to  come  up  to  Athalia's 
room,  and  play  a  game  of  cards.  She  had  never  before  con- 


248  HOT     CORN. 

sented  to  that,  but  now  Mrs.  Laylor  was  there,  and  she  desired 
it,  and  so  he  came.  It  had  been  all  previously  arranged  thai 
he  should,  and  that  he  should  order  another  bottle  of  wine — 
mixed  wine — and  then  Mrs.  Laylor  was  called  out,  and  went 
suddenly,  saying  as  she  did  so : 

"  Let  the  cards  lie,  I  will  be  back  in  a  minute." 

That  minute  never  came.  That  night  was  the  last  of  con 
scious  purity  which  had  so  long  sustained  Athalia  through  all 
her  trials. 

For  the  next  six  months  she  never  allowed  herself  to  think. 
She  was  lost.  The  instruments  of  darkness  had  betrayed  her 
into  the  deepest  consequences. 

The  scene  shifts. 

Shall  we  see  Athalia  again  I 

Wait. 


LIFE    SCENES    IN     NEW    YORK.  249 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  LITTLE  PEDLAR.— MORE  OF  ATHALIA. 

"  Wisdom  and  goodness  to  the  vile  seem  vile," 

And  thus  at  this  may  laugh  the  scoffer. 

"  Let  those  laugh  who  win." 

WE  started  in  the  first  chapter  of  our  volume  of  "  Life 
Scenes,"  to  take  an  evening  walk  up  Broadway.  How  little 
progress  we  have  made.  We  turned  off  at  Cortland  street,  to 
follow  Mrs.  Eaton  and  her  children  home,  and  then  we  went 
with  the  crowd  to  the  fire.  Then  we  came  back  to  listen  to 
the  cry  of  "  Hot  Corn,  hot  corn !  here  i ;  your  nice  hot  corn, 
smoking  hot!"  that  came  up  in  such  plaintive  music  from  the 
mouth  of  Little  Katy,  in  the  Park.  Then  we  followed  her  to 
her  home,  and  to  her  grave.  What  a  ramble  I  have  led 
you,  reader.  Occasionally  our  route  has  led  us  back  again 
and  again  into  this  great,  broad,  main  artery  of  the  lower  part 
of  this  bustling  world,  this  great  moving,  living  body,  called 
New  York.  There  are  several  other  broadways  in  the  upper 
part  of  the  city.  We  have,  but  one  in  the  lowest  portion  of  it 
— that  is  for  carriages.  There  are  a  good  many  broadways  of 
the  town,  through  which  pedestrians  go,  where  they  "  put  an 
enemy  in  the  mouth  to  steal  away  the  brains,"  an  enemy 

"  Whose  edge  is  sharper  than  the  sword  :  whose  tongue 
Out-venoms  all  the  worms  of  TTile  ]  whose  breath 
11* 


250  HOT     CORN. 

Rides  on  the  winds,  and  doth  belie 

All  corners  of  the  world ;  kings,  queens,  and  states, 

Maids,  matrons,"  all  in  one  fell  swoop, 

To  earth  struck  down. 

Such  a  broadway  may  be  seen,  nay,  must  be  seen,  by  »J.  /ho 
enter  the  great,  high,  oaken  doors  of  the  granite  portal  o  one 
of  the  best  of  the  great  Broadway  hotels  in  New  York,  for 
the  way  is  wide  open,  inviting  the  weary  traveller  to  enter  the 
great,  dome-shaped  "exchange" — exchange  of  gold,  health, 
peace  of  mind,  domestic  blessings,  for  a  worm  that  will  gnaw 
out  the  very  soul ;  a  worm  with  teeth,  !'  whose  edge  is  sharper 
than  the  sword." 

That  granite  pile  is  a  creditable  ornament  to  the  city.  Its 
walls  have  a  look  of  solidity  as  enduring  as  the  hills.  Yet  it 
contains  an  element  within  that  has  settled  the  strong  built 
fabrics  of  a  greater  Master  Builder  than  the  architect  of  that 
house,  down  to  the  very  dust,  in  a  few  short  years,  carrying 
with  it  marble  palaces  and  granite  walls. 

That  building  was  erected  by  one  who  sprang,  from  a  class 
as  lowly  as  the  day  laborer  who  helped  to  rear  its  walls,  to 
almost  immeasurable  wealth,  by  a  life  of  industry,  free  from 
the  vice  or  misfortune  of  drunkenness. 

At  first  it  did  not  contain  that  great  broadway  to  death.  True, 
death  had  his  abode  there,  but  he  kept  in  a  cave  out  of  sight. 
He  did  not  thrust  his  hideous  visage  into  the  face  of  every 
guest,  as  he  does  now.  The  place  of  his  "  exchange"  was 
then  a  place  of  green  grass  and  flowers  and  sparkling  foun 
tains,  upon  which  all  the  interior  windows  of  that  great 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  -    251 

caravansery  looked  down  with  joy  and  gladness,  smiling  o'er 
the  perfumed  atmosphere,  and  beauty  admired  beautiful 
flowers,  and  listened  to  love-inspiring  songs  of  birds,  and 
pattering  of  falling  water  in  the  great  marble  basin.  Ah! 
that  was  a  court,  worthy  of  such  a  traveller's  home.  But  it 
did  not  produce  the  profit  that  flows  to  the  owner  through 
another  liquid  channel,  where  that  fountain  once  leaped, 
played  and  sparkled  in  the  sunshine.  Lovely  eyes  stiil  look 
down  from  the  surrounding  chamber  windows,  not  upon  the 
flowers  and  birds  and  crystal  waters,  but  upon  an  unsightly 
dome,  and  in  fancy  through  its  roof,  and  there  they  see  their 
husbands,  brothers,  fathers,  friends,  putting  an  enemy  in  their 
mouths  to  steal  away  their  brains.  How  fancy  will  work ; 
how  it  will  send  sharp  pangs  to  the  heart ;  sharper  than  a 
two-edged  sword ;  how  the  feeble  wife  will  look  down  upon 
that  roof,  and  pray  for  it  to  give  up  her  husband.  Other 
wives  have  prayed  the  tomb  for  the  same  object,  both  equally 
effective.  Both  will  pray  to  both  again,  and  both  will  feel 
that  hardest  of  all  pangs  for  a  wife  to  bear,  the  pang  that 
tells  of  a  lost  husband  ;  lost  in  one  case  almost  as  sure  as  the 
other ;  the  loss  more  hard  to  bear,  when  lost  while  living, 
than  when  lost  by  death. 

I  was  sitting,  one  night,  in  the  corridor  of  this,  with  the 
exception  of  its  drinking  "exchange,"  really  good,  well 
managed  hotel,  looking  over  the  balustrade,  at  the  in-coming 
and  out-going  throng,  counting  the  numbers  that  went  rum- 
ward  as  three  to  one,  to  those  who  wfcnt  up  the  solid  stone 
Bteps,  already  deeply  worn  by  the  constant  dropping  of  feet, 


252  HOT     CORN. 

and  trying  to  read  the  varied  countenances  of  the  ever-chang 
ing,  varying  scene  before  me.     It  is  a  useful  study,  to  study 
our  own  kind  ;  it  is  a  good  place,  in  the  corridor  of  a  great 
hotel,  to  practice.     Every  now  and  then,  a  face  beamed  out 
from  the  mass  which  made  me  sensible  that  it  was  not  new, 
but  whether  an  old  acquaintance,  or  one  seen  before  in  some 
other  crowd,  I  could  not  tell.     Once  only  I  was  sure  that  the 
face  which  riveted  my  attention  was  that  of  one  I  had  called 
friend,  yet,  for  my  life,  I  could  not  tell  when  or  where.     It 
was  one  of  those  faces  which  we  never  forget.     It  was  one 
which  a  child  would  approach  with  confidence,  to  ask  for  a 
favor.     It  was  one,  which  a  stranger  in  his  walk  through  the 
city,  would  pick  out  among  a  hundred,  to  ask  for  a  direction 
to-  a  particular  street.     Ten  chances  to  one,  he  would  not  be 
satisfied  to  give  that  stranger  a  direction  in  words,  but  would 
turn   round,  and   go  a  little   out  of    the  way  to   show  the 
inquirer  the  best  route,  or  stand  upon  the  side-walk  until  one 
of  the  right  line  of  stages  came  up  so  as  to  be  sure  that  he 
went  right.     There  are  a  few  such  faces,  which  go  far  to 
redeem  the  mass  from  the  charge  of  coldness  or  selfishness, 
which  does  seem  to  be  the  distinguishing  mark  of  the  majority. 
I  followed  this  one  up  the  steps,  and  as  far  as  the  vision 
extended,  as  he  walked  away  to  one  of  the  parlors.     He  was 
an  elderly  man,  silvering  with  age,  neatly,  but  plainly  dressed, 
and  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  he  looked  in  everything 
about  him,  as  though  it  would  rejoice  his  very  soul  to  have  a 
chance  to  do  a  good  action.     I  was  not  mistaken.     You  will 
not  be  if  you  read  on.     I  could  not  sit  still  after  he  had 


LIFE     SCENES    IN     NEW    YORK.  253 

passed  up.  I  went  into  a  long  tr?  m  of  thought  upon  the 
mental  question,  the  one  absorbing  question,  "  Who  is  he  ?" 
The  argument  grew  intensely  painful,  and  I  became  so  much 
absorbed  in  it,  that  I  almost  forgot  for  a  moment  where  1 
was,  until  I  was  brought  back  to  consciousness  by  a  little 
voice  in  my  ear,  of,  "Please  to  buy  these,  sir."  I  almost 
said,  no,  without  deigning  to  look  up  at  the  quasi  beggar,  as 
the  frequency  of  the  question,  in  all  public  places,  is  such 
that  it  is  somewhat  annoying.  But  there  was  a  something  in 
the  tone  of  the  voice  that  sent  its  magnetic  power  through 
me,  and  put  down  that  spirit  which  gives  the  cold  shoulder 
to  the  poor,  and  bids  them  "  call  again  to-morrow." 

"  There  is  a  Providence  in  all  things,"  many  a  pious  heart 
will  aspirate,  as  the  truths  of  this  little  incident  are  made 
manifest.  It  does,  certainly,  seem  a  little  singular  that  this 
little  pedlar  girl  should  be  the  chosen  instrument  of  con 
nexion  between  me  and  that  benevolent  gentleman,  whom  I 
had  been  vainly  endeavoring  to  recognise  in  thought,  and 
also  another  character,  with  which  the  deader  is  already 
acquainted. 

What  is  there  in  a  word,  or  tone,  the  mere  sound  of  the 
voice,  that  sends  a  stream  of  magnetic  fluid  through  the  sys 
tem,  to  repel  or  attract  the  speaker  ? 

What  singular  means  are  used  to  bring  about  strange 
results !  I  was  magnetized  by  that  voice.  What  the  result 
was,  you  shall  see.  But  after  the  fluid  had  once  entered  my 
brain,  I  could  no  more  repel  the  voice,  or  its  owner,  or  drive 
it  away,  than  the  iron  can  disengage  itself  from  the  magnet. 


254  HOT     CORN. 

I  looked  up,  and  a  little  girl  with  a  basket  upon  her  arm  wa» 
standing  by  my  side,  holding  up  a  pair  of  suspenders  while 
she  uttered  the  "Please  buy  these,  sir?"  close  to  my  ear. 
She  was  a  pretty  child,  between  twelve  and  thirteen  years  old, 
rather  precocious  in  appearance ;  was  neatly  dressed,  and  pos 
sessed  of  such  a  mild,  sweet  voice;  that  the  mocking-bird 
might  imitate  it  in  his  dulcet  notes. 

I  could  not  say,  no,  in  such  tones  as  would  send  her  away, 
and  so  I  replied,  pleasantly,  "  No,  my  girl,  I  do  not  wish  to 
buy  them." 

The  timid  take  courage  at  mild  words.  Was  she  too, 
attracted  by  mine  ?  There  is  magnetism  in  the  human  voice. 

"  Then,  perhaps,  you  will  buy  a  box  of  matches  ?"  "  No." 
"  Or  a  comb."  "  No."  "  Oh,  do  buy  something,  sir,  it  is  get 
ting  late,  and  I  am  so  anxious  to  sell  a  few  shillings'  worth 
more.  Will  you  buy  a  pair  of  gloves  ?  you  wear  gloves, 
don't  you  ?  Oh !  do  let  me  sell  you  a  pair,  you  look  as 
though  you  would  buy  something  of  me  if  you  wanted 
anything.  Will  you  buy  a  shirt  collar  ?  There  is  a  nice  one, 
sir,  one  that  my  sick  mother  made,  sir.  Will  you  buy 
that  ?" 

"  No,  my  girl,  I  never  wear  collars,  but  I  will  buy  a  pair  of 
gloves,  if  you  will  answer  me  a  few  questions." 

"  Will  you  ?  Well  sir,  if  they  are  such  as  I  may  answer,  I 
will,  and  I  don't  think  you  would  ask  me  any  other — some 
men  do,  though." 

"  That  is  just  one  of  the  questions  I  wanted  to  ask  you." 

"  Oh,  BIT,  I  wish  you  would  not  ask  me  what  some  men 


LIFE     SCENES    IN     NEW   YORK.  255 

say  to  me,  it  is  so  bad  ;  only  yesterday  evening,  one  very  bad 
man — but  I  cannot  tell." 

And  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Well,  then,  don't  tell  if  it  distresses  you  so." 

"  It  won't  now,  and  I  want  to  tell  you,  because  I  should 
like  to  let  you  know  what  a  good  man  that  grey-headed 
old  gentleman  is  that  came  in  just  before  I  did," 

"  What,  the  one  with  a  gold-headed  cane  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  a  tall  man,  with  a  grey  frock-coat,  and  such  a 
good-looking  face." 

"  Then,  I  do  want  you  to  tell  me,  if  it  is  anything  about 
him.  I  think  I  have  seen  him  before." 

"  Then,  I  hope  you  will  again,  for  he  is  one  of  the  real 
good  men.  Well,  sir,  yesterday  evening,  I  was  here,  and  I 
offered  to  sell  some  things  to  a  young  gentleman,  and  he 
talked  so  clever,  that  I  felt  glad  to  think  how  many  things 
he  was  going  to  buy,  for  he  picked  out  a  pair  of  gloves  and 
six  shirt  collars,  and  several  other  things,  and  told  me  to 
come  up  to  his  room,  and  get  the  money,  and  I  went  up ;  I 
did  not  think  it  any  harm,  for  I  had  been  up  several  times 
before  to  gentlemen's  rooms,  and  they  never  acted  bad  to  me, 
but  this  one  did,  and  I  was  so  frightened  that  I  screamed, 
and  then  he  caught  me,  and  put  his  handkerchief  to  my 
mouth,  and  I  don't  know  what  he  would  have  done,  but  just 
then  I  heard  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  somebody  demanded  to 
come  in,  but  the  door  was  locked,  and  he  could  not,  and  so 
the  man  that  held  me  told  him,  but  it  did  no  good,  for  he  waa 
a  strong  man,  and  ho  burst  the  lock  off  in  an  instant,  and 


256  HOT     CORN, 

how  he  did  talk  to  the  one  in  the  room,  and  he  made  him 
pay  me  for  all  the  things  he  had  picked  out,  and  then  he  told 
him  to  pack  up  his  trunk,  and  leave  the  city  by  the  first  boat 
or  railroad  in  the  morning.  And  then  he  told  him  how  he 
had  watched  his  manoeuvres,  and  then  he  took  me  in  his 
room,  and  talked  to  me  so  good,  so  kind,  and  asked  me  all 
about  my  mother,  and  where  she  lived,  and  what  she  did,  and 
why  I  went  about  peddling,  and  all  that ;  and  then  he  asked 
me  if  I  would  not  like  to  go  and  live  with  some  good 
family  in  the  country  ?  and  then  I  told  him  that  I  should  like 
to  live  with  him,  for,  indeed,  sir,  I  loved  him,  he  talked  so 
good  to  me.  Then  he  gave  a  little  sigh,  and  said,  '  Ah,  my 
girl,  I  wish  I  had  a  home  to  take  you  to,  but  I  have  none ;  I 
am  a  lone  man  in  the  world,  but  I  will  go  and  see  your 
mother,  and  see  what  we  can  do  for  you,  as  you  have  grown 
too  big  for  such  work  as  this.  You  must  quit  it,  or  ruin  is 
your  doom,'  and  a  great  deal  more,  he  said." 

'*  And  why  have  you  followed  it  till  now  ?" 

"  Because  my  mother  would  not  let  me  quit  it — in  fact,  sir, 
I  do  not  see  how  we  could  live  if  I  did  quit,  for  I  make  about 
three  dollars  a  week,  and  that  is  more  than  my  mother  can 
make  with  her  needle,  and  work  every  day  till  midnight ;  and 
then  she  is  sick  sometimes,  and  so  I  must  do  something,  for 
mother  is  very  feeble  and  says  she  is  almost  worn  out,  and 
that  I  shall  soon  have  nobody  but  myself  to  work  for.  I  am 
sure  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  me  then ;  do  you, 
sir?" 

I  thought,  but  dared  not  give  it  utterance.     And  I  almosl 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  257 

wept  at  the  certainty  of  her  sad  fate,  if  she  remained  in  the 
city ;  a  fate  she  could  not  escape  from,  without  abandoning 
her  helpless  mother,  one  of  the  poor  sewing  women  of  this 
pandemonium. 

"  Now,  will  you  buy  the  gloves,  for  I  have  answered  all 
the  questions  you  asked  ?" 

"  One  more.     What  is  your  mother's  name  ?" 

"  May — Mrs.  May.  If  you  should  want  any  shirts  made, 
sir,  there  is  her  name  and  number  on  that  little  card." 

"  Is  that  your  mother's  writing  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  don't  she  write  pretty  ?  I  can  write  too,  but 
not  like  that." 

"  Well,  I  shall  call  and  see  your  mother,  if  I  want  work. 
Here  is  the  money  for  the  gloves." 

"  I  cannot  make  change  ;  have  you  got  the  change,  or  shall 
I  run  out  and  get  it  changed  ?  I  will  if  you  will  keep  my 
basket." 

"  No,  no ;  I  do  not  wish  any  change.  You  may  keep 
it  all." 

"  Oh,  that  is  just  the  way  that  good  old  gentleman  said 
last  night — keep  it  all.  Ah,  me !" 

And  she  gave  a  little  start  of  surprise  as  she  looked  at  the 
individual  who  seemed  to  be  standing  behind  my  chair. 

"  Why,  here  he  is  now.  I  do  wonder  if  he  has  heard  me 
talking  all  about  him  ?  I  hope  I  have  not  said  anything 
wrong." 

"  No,  no,  nothing  that  you  need  to  blush  for.  I  am  glad 
you  have  found  another  friend  to  talk  with ;  one  who  is  will- 


258  HOT     CORN. 

ing  to  pay  you  for  the  time — time  is  money — that  he  keeps 
you  from  your  business." 

It  was  my  turn  to  start  now.  I  had  heard  that  voice 
before.  In  a  moment  I  could  fix  it  in  my  memory,  though 
it  was  a  good  many  years  since  I  had  heard  it,  and  then  it  was 
in  the  wilds  of  the  West.  I  offered  him  my  hand,  and  said  : 

"  We  have  shaken  hands  before.     Your  name  is — " 

"  Lovetree.  And  now  I  know  you.  I  thought  it  was  some 
one  whom  I  had  seen  before.  I  saw  you  in  such  earnest  con 
versation  with  this  little  pedlar  girl,  that  I  could  not  help 
drawing  nigh  to  hear ;  I  must  own  I  wished  to  see  if  she 
would  tell  you  the  same  story  she  did  me.  I  think  now  she 
is  a  girl  of  truth.  What  can  we  do  for  her  ?  Shall  we  go 
and  see  her  mother  ?" 

"  I  wish  you  would  to-morrow.  She  is  not  at  home  to-night. 
She  has  gone — at  any  rate  she  told  me  she  would  go  to 
see  a  lady,  a  real  good  lady,  who  is  worse  off  than  my  mother, 
for  she  is  in  a  bad  house,  and  she  wants  to  get  away ;  she 
told  me  so  to-day,  and  they  will  not  let  her.  She  is  one  of 
the  best  women  in  the  world.  She  is  a  dress-maker,  and 
she  used  to  live  so  nice  in  Broome  street,  close  by  my  mother, 
with  another  good  girl,  and  that  girl  got  married  and  moved 
away  off  out  West,  I  don't  know  how  many  thousand  miles ; 
and  this  girl  got  married  too ;  and,  oh  dear !  her  husband 
used  to  get  so  drunk,  and  go  to  bad  places,  and  his  wife  used 
to  work  and  work;  my  mother  used  to  work  for  her,  and 
she  was  good  to  my  mother,  and  that  is  what  makes  me  so 
sorry  for  her  now." 


LIFE     SCENES    IN    NEW    YORK.  259 

"  How  came  she  in  the  bad  house  you  tell  of,  and  how  did 
you  come  to  find  her  there  ?" 

"  Oh  my,  I  cannot  tell  you  all  about  it,  I  don't  know ;  I 
know  she  had  an  auction,  and  she  went  away  in  a  carnage, 
and  I  felt  so  sorry,  and  I  did  not  know  where  she  went ;  but 
to-day.  I  saw  that  same  carriage,  and  saw  her  with  that  same 
woman,  and  I  followed  it  home,  and  then  I  went  up  to  the 
door,  and  I  told  the  girl  I  had  come  to  see  Mrs.  Morgan ; 
that  was  no  lie,  for  I  had,  if  I  did  not  know  before  that  she 
was  there ;  and  that  Mrs.  Morgan  wanted  to  buy  some  needles ; 
that  was  a  lie ;  but  what  should  I  say,  I  wanted  to  see  her  so 
bad ;  and  then  the  girl  said,  she  was  not  there,  that  there 
was  no  Mrs.  Morgan  in  the  house,  and  then  I  felt  bad, 
because  I  knew  she  was  there,  and  I  was  afraid  something 
was  wrong,  and  I  began  to  cry,  indeed,  sir;  don't  laugh  at 
me,  I  could  not  help  it,  I  would  have  cried  my  eyes  out  to  see 
her,  but  the  girl  said,  she  was  not  there,  and  I  said,  I  saw 
her  come  there  in  the  carriage,  just  a  minute  ago ;  and  then 
another  girl  told  the  servant  girl,  it  was  Lucy,  Lucy  Smith, 
that  I  wanted  to  see ;  but  I  knew  it  was  not,  but  I  thought  I 
would  go  up  and  see  Lucy  Smith,  and  may  be  she  would  tell 
me  about  Mrs.  Morgan ;  and  so  I  went  to  Lucy  Smith's  room, 
and  I  rapped  on  the  door,  and  somebody  said,  come  in ;  I 
thought  I  should  go  off",  for  I  knew  the  voice  in  a  minule,  and 
I  opened  the  door,  and  thea  it  was  not  Lucy  Smith,  they 
only  called  her  so  for  sham,  and  so  that  nobody  would  know 
her ;  it  was  Mrs.  Morgan.  How  glad  I  was  to  see  her,  and 
how  glad  she  was  to  see  me ;  how  she  did  hug  me  and  kiss 


260  HOT     CORN. 

me,  and  call  me  her  little  pet ;  and  then  she  told  me — but 
you  don't  want  to  hear — why  did  you  not  stop  me  before — 
my  mother  says  I  always  talk  too  much  when  I  get  a-going ; 
I  am  sorry  that  I  have  talked  so  much,  but,  oh,  how  I  do 
wish  you  would  go  and  see  Mrs.  Morgan,  and  help  her  to  get 
away  from  there  ;  I  will  give  you  all  the  money  I  have  made 
to-day,  to  help  you,  and  I  am  sure  my  mother  would  give  it 
as  soon  as  I  would,  for  she  cried  and  took  on  so  when  I  told 
her.  Oh  dear !  I  know  well  enough  she  never  would  be  a 
bad  woman,  unless  they  made  her." 

"  I  do  not  understand  this  matter  at  all ;  do  you  ?" 
"Oh,  yes,  I  replied,  perfectly.  Some  poor  unfortunate 
woman,  with  a  miserable,  drunken  husband,  has  been  driven 
by  necessity,-  probably  to  take  up  her  abode  in  some  house  of 
sin,  where  she  finds  her  life  miserable,  and  is  anxious  to 
escape  ;  I  suppose  that  is  it." 

"  Anxious  to  escape !  Why,  sir,  you  confuse  me  worse 
than  ever.  No  one  is  obliged  to  stay  in  such  houses,  are 
they  ?  If  she  wished  to  go  away,  she  could  go  ;  it  is  her  own 
sinful  choice  that  she  is  there." 

"  Friend  Lovetree,  how  long  have  you  lived  out  West  ?" 
"Well,  some  twenty-five  years,  I  suppose.    You  have  a 
short  way  of  turning  a  corner.     Was  I  talking  anything 
about  the  West  ?" 

"  No.  Twenty-five  years.  This  city  has  changed  some  in 
that  time,  and  you  have  got  behind  the  times.  You  don't 
know  as  much  as  this  little  girl  about  this  matter.  Ask 
her." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  261 

"How  is  it  little  girl — what  did  you  tell  me  was  youj 
name  ?" 

"  Stella,  sir,  Stella  May." 

"Well  then  Stella,  what  is  to  hinder  this  Mrs.  Morgan 
from  coming  away  if  she  wishes  ?" 

"  Because  she  is  in  debt,  sir." 

''Debt,  sir,  debt!  do  private  citizens  imprison  their  fellows 
for  debt  ?  Are  women  compelled  to  live  in  houses  of  prosti 
tution  in  this  city,  a  city  where  the  Bible  is  read  and  gospel 
preached,  against  their  will  ?  Preposterous,  I  will  not  believe 
it." 

"  Nevertheless  it  is  gospel  truth,  as  much  as  the  Bible 
itself.  The  keepers  of  such  houses  sometimes  inveigle  inno 
cent  young  girls  into  their  dens,  board  and  clothe  tnem,  and 
get  them  in  debt,  and  in  fact  make  them  slaves,  as  sure  as 
those  who  are  bought  and  sold  in  southern  cities.  They 
cannot  leave  unless  they  leave  naked,  with  the  mark  of  their 
owner  branded,  not  upon  the  surface  of  their  bodies,  but 
burnt  into  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  mind. 

"Sometimes  those  who  go  there  voluntarily,  repent  after 
wards  most  bitterly,  most  gladly  would  leave,  but  the  door  is 
closed  against  them,  they  are  shut  out  of  the  world  by  the 
mark  upon  them,  and  shut  in  by  their  creditor  mistress,  or 
kept  in  such  a  state  of  intoxication  that  they  have  no  time  to 
redeem  themselves  from  their  life  of  slavery. 

"  From  this  little  girl's  account  I  venture  to  say  that  this 
woman  is  some  one  of  the  thousands  of  poor  seamstresses, 
who  stitch  and  starve  in  this  city,  who  perhaps  in  very  despair 


262  HOT     CORN. 

after  a  long  struggle  to  live  with  a  drunken  husband,  has 
been  tempted  into  one  of  these  places,  and  is  now  repenting 
grievously,  and  would  gladly  get  away,  but  has  not  the  means 
to  do  so ;  for  she  lacks  a  small  sum  to  pay  her  greedy 
landlady  some  iniquitous  charge,  and  a  few  dollars  and  some 
friend  to  assist  her  in  her  immediate  necessities.  Thus  she 
will  live  a  short  life  of  excitement,  and  go  friendless  and 
unwept  to  an  early  grave." 

"  She  shall  not.  She  shall  not.  I  have  money,  useless,  idle, 
more  than  I  shall  ever  want,  and  I  have  no  friends.  I  will 
be  her  friend,  I  will  rescue  her,  and  she  shall  be  mine." 

Stella,  the  little  pedler,  had  stood  as  though  transfixed, 
during  all  this  time,  drinking  in  every  word,  until  she  found 
that  her  friend,  poor  Mrs.  Morgan,  would  have  some  one 
to  care  for  her,  some  one  to  love  her  as  she  loved  her,  one 
who  had  money,  "  more  money  than  he  wanted,"  to  assist  her, 
and  then  she  grew  as  enthusiastic  as  Mr.  Lovetree.  She 
caught  him  by  the  hand,  and  as  the  tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks,  tears  of  joy,  blessed  tears,  that  drop  like  honey  upon 
the  lips,  sending  sweetness  through  every  channel  of  sensation 
in  the  whole  system,  she  said,  "  Will  you,  will  you  give  her 
money  to  get  out  of  that  place  ?  Will  you  go  and  see  her  ? 
Will  you  love  her  ?  Oh  I  am  so  happy !  I  must  run  home 
and  tell  my  mother,  and  that  will  make  her  happy  too.  Now 
I  am  so  glad  I  told  you  all  about  it." 

"  And  you  will  do  it,"  said  she,  looking  up  in  his  face  so 
earnestly,  "  yes,  I  know  you  will,  you  don't  look  like  one  of 
those  kind  of  folks  who  say  one  thing  and  mean  another." 


LIFE     SCENES    IN     NEW    YORK.  268 

Yes  he  would  do  it,  I  knew  that ;  naturally  enthusiastic, 
though  not  easily  carried  away  by  sudden  flaws  of  side  winds, 
when  he  once  said,  "  I  will  do  it,"  it  was  half  done. 

"  Now  I  will  run  home  and  tell  mother,  for  I  want  her  to 
be  as  happy  as  me.  Good  night." 

"Stop,  stop  a  moment,  you  have  not  told  us  where  the 
poor  lady  is  that  you  wish  us  to  go  and  see,  nor  what  her 
name  is." 

"  Oh  dear,  I  forgot  that.  Yes  I  told  you,  Mrs.  Morgan,  but 
you  want  her  whole  name  ;  well  that  is  such  a  pretty  name ; 
I  love  pretty  names ;  have  you  a  card,  I  will  write  it  for  you." 

"  What,  can  you  write  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  sir,  before  we  got  so  poor,  I  used  to  go  to  school. 
I  would  like  to  go  now,  but  I  have  no  time.  You  ought  to 
see  my  mother  write  ;  she  can  write  so  pretty." 

I  saw  what  was  working  in  the  benevolent  old  gentleman's 
face,  while  Stella  was  writing.  He  had  heard  her  say,  "  I 
would  like  to  go  to  school  now,"  and  he  was  resolving  in  his 
mind,  "  Why  not  ?  Why  should  I  not  send  her  there  ?  I 
have  none  of  my  own  to  send."  It  was  a  good  resolve. 

"  There,  that  is  it.  '  Mrs.  Athalia  Morgan,  at  Mrs.  Laylor's 

in  H n  street.'  I  don't  recollect  the  number,  but 

you  can  find  it  easy  enough ;  mother  says  it  does  seem  as 
though  the  evil  one  always  stood  ready  to  lead  folks  to  such 
houses.  But  you  had  better  inquire  for  Lucy  Smith.  They 
don't  know  her  by  any  other  name  there.  Shall  I  go  now  ? 
Good  night.  I  am  so  anxious  to  tell  mother." 

w  Athalia  ! — Athalia !"  said  my  friend,  as  he  spelt  over  the 


264  HOT     CORN. 

name  on  the  card.  "  Athalia !  oh,  pshaw  !  that  is  nonsense, 
yet  it  might  be — why  not  ?  I  say,  my  little  girl,  you  knew 
iier  before  she  was  married.  What  was  her  name  then  ?" 

"  And  what  is  that,  '  why  not,'  and  what  about  that  name  ? 
The  little  girl  is  well  on  her  way  home,  by  this  time,  if  she 
kept  on  at  the  speed  she  went  down  stairs.  Her  earnestness 
makes  me  begin  to  feel  a  good  deal  interested  in  that  woman." 

"  Nothing,  only  a  thought,  a  mere  passing  thought,  and 
yet  I  cannot  shake  it  off.  It  is  rather  an  unusual  name.  I 
had  a  brother — yes,  I  had  a  brother,  whether  I  have  or  not 
now,  I  cannot  tell ;  yet  he  was  not  exactly  a  brother  either, 
though  we  called  the  same  woman  mother,  and  the  same  man 
father,  and  whether  he  is  living  now  or  not  I  cannot  say,  but 
think  not.  He  did  very  badly,  drank  up  all  his  property,  and 
took  the  usual  course,  and  I  suppose  he  is  dead,  and  his  wife 
too,  and  then  his  children  are  orphans,  and  why  not  this  be 
one  of  them  ;  it  is  the  same  name.  Athalia — it  is  not  a  com 
mon  name ;  if  it  had  been  I  should  not  remember  it,  for  I 
never  saw  her  but  once,  then  a  little  girl  not  as  big  as  this  one 
just  here.  I  wish  she  had  not  run  away  so  soon,  before  I 
could  ask  her  a  single  question.  What  shall  I  do  now  ?" 

"  Go  and  ask  Athalia  herself." 

"  What !  to-night  ?  It  is  now  ten  o'clock,  time  all  respect 
able  citizens  were  in  bed.  It  is  too  late." 

"  No,  it  is  never  too  late  to  begin  to  do  good.  It  is  just  the 
hour  that  the  lives  of  the  inmates  of  such  houses,  as  we  pro 
pose  to  visit,  begin.  From  this  till  one  or  two  o'clock,  drink 
ing,  carousing,  swearing,  and  all  sorts  of  revelry  and  debauch- 


LIFE     6CENE8     IN     NEW    YORK.  265 

ery,  and  then it  is  well  that  night  has  curtains.  Now  this 

house  where  we  are  to  go,  however,  I  take,  from  its  location,  to 
be  one  of  a  different  character,  one  that  maintains  a  show  of 
respectability,  yet  is  one  of  the  most  dangerous,  for  its  victims 
are  drawn  from  among  a  class  just  as  good  as  Stella  has 
described  Mrs.  Morgan." 

"  You  think,  then,  that  we  may  go  there  safely,  at  this  hour 
of  the  night?" 

"As  safely,  as  respects  our  persons,  as  to  church.  As 
dangerously,  as  respects  our  morals,  as  the  poor  weak  bird 
fluttering  within  the  charmed  circle  of  the  fascinating  ser 
pent." 

"  As  to  that  I  fear  nothing." 

"  So  has  said  many  a  one.     I  say, 

'  He  must  have  a  long  spoon  that  must  eat  with  the  devil,' 

or  he  will  soon  come  to  such  familiarity  that  he  will  eat  freely 
out  of  the  same  dish.  No  man  is  proof  against  the  fascinations 
of  a  designing  woman.  But  as  we  go  doubly  armed,  for  our 
cause  is  j"ust,  let  us  go,  go  at  once,  for  I  see  you  are  excited 
about  that  name.  It  would  be  strange,  if  it  should  prove  to 
be  your  niece." 

"  Yes  and  stranger  still,  the  way  that  we  have  been  brought 
together,  and  to  a  knowledge  of  her,  through  our  mutual 
sympathy  for  this  little  pedler  girl,  such  an  one  as  we  may 
Bee  every  hour  in  the  streets,  without  exciting  a  passing 
thought.  What  a  mysterious  power  governs  all  our  actions, 
and  how  we  are  influenced  and  turned  aside  from  the  path 

12 


268  HOT     CORN. 

we  bad  marked  out,  by  the  most  trivial  circumstance*.  I  had 
seen  this  little  girl  come  in  here  and  offer  her  little  wares  a 
score  of  times,  without  paying  any  attention  to  her  or  her 
movements,  except  to  wonder  how  any  mother  could  trust 
such  a  child,  bright,  good-looking,  free  spoken,  forward — 
that  is,  precocious — among  so  many  fops  and  libertines,  who 
would  take  advantage  of  her  some  day,  and  by  deceit  and 
money  work  her  ruin.  Last  night  I  had  put  on  my  gloves 
and  hat,  and  was  just  walking  out  as  she  came  in  with  her 
"  Please  to  buy  this,  sir,"  and  why  I  did  not  go  out  I  cannot 
tell,  but  some  unaccountable  influence  turned  me  back,  and  I 
picked  up  a  paper  and  sat  apparently  absorbed  in  its  contents, 
•  while  my  ear  was  open  and  mind  awake  to  every  word  and 
movement  of  the  libertine  rascal  who  made  a  pretence  of 
buying  liberally,  to  induce  her  to  go  up  to  his  room  to  get  the 
pay.  I  followed,  watched  him  to  his  room,  heard  the  key 
turn  in  the  lock,  heard  all  his  conversation,  his  vile  proposals, 
and  her  virtuous  rejection,  with  an  energy,  'that  she  had 
rather  starve  and  see  her  mother  dead ;'  and  then  I  heard  a 
struggle  and  I  knew  the  villain  was  using  his  brutal  strength 
upon  a  weak  girl,  and  then  I  burst  the  door,  and  then — you 
know  the  rest." 

"  Why  did  you  not  strike  the  villain  dead  at  your  feet  ?" 

"  That  is  savage  nature." 

"  Why  not  arrest  and  punish  him,  then,  for  his  attempt  at 
rape?" 

"  That  is  civilized  nature." 

u  What  then  did  you  do  1" 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  267 

"  I  forgave  him,  and  bade  him  repent,  and  ask  God  to  for 
give  him,  as  I  did." 

'*  Lovetree,  give  me  your  hand,  I  give  you  my  heart ;  I 
stand  rebuked.  I  understand  you  now,  that  was  Christian 
nature.  Let  us  go." 

Reader,  walk  with  us.  We  threaded  our  way  along  the 
crowded  side-walk,  passing  or  meeting,  between  the  Astor 
House  and  Canal  street,  not  less  than  fifty  girls;  some  of 
them  not  over  twelve  years  old,  many  about  fourteen  or  fif 
teen,  some  of  them  superbly  beautiful,  naturally  or  artificially, 
and  all,  such  as  the  spirit,  hovering  over  the  poor  ship 
wrecked  mariner  upon  the  stormy  ocean,  cries  wildly  to,  as 
they  sink,  down,  down,  to  death,  "  lost,  lost,  lost !" 

"  Why,  why,  tell  me  why  they  are  permitted  to  roam 
through  the  streets,  plying  their  seductive  arts  ?  Where  are 
your  police  ?  Where  your  city  Fathers  ? — guardians  of  the 
morals  of  strangers  and  citizens !  How  can  anything,  male 
or  female,  remain  pure  in  such  an  atmosphere  of  impurity  I 
Where  are  your  laws  ?  laws  of  love  that  lift  up  the  fallen. 
Where  all  your  high-paid,  well-fed  city  guardians,  who  should 
watch  the  city  youth,  to  keep  them  from  becoming  impure  ?" 

Echo  gave  the  answer,  and  it  reverberated  back  and  forth 
from  granite  wall  to  freestone,  from  marble  front  to  red- 
burnt  bricks,  from  dark  cellar  to  gas-lighted  hall,  from  low 
dens  of  death  to  high  rooms  of  wealth  and  fashion,  from  law 
makers  to  law  breakers ;  echo  came  back  with  that  one  word, 
"  Impure,  impure,  impure." 

How  the  throng  go  thoughtlessly  onward.     Do  they  ever 


268  HOT     CORN. 

think — think  what  a  sirocco  blast  from  the  valley  of  the  tJpas 
tree,  is  sweeping  over  this  city?  Do  mothers  ever  inquire, 
ever  think  whether  it  is  possible  for  their  sons  to  escape  the 
contagion  of  such  company  as  they  keep  in  the  great  evening 
promenade  of  this  mighty  Babylon  ?  Have  New  York 
mothers  no  feeling  of  fear  for  their  sons  ?  or  has  "  the  pesti 
lence  that  walketh  in  darkness,"  obtained1  such  strength  that 
this  is  overcome  ?  or  has  the  plague  spot  grown  so  familiar  to 
their  eyes  that  they  no  longer  seek  to  wash  it  out  ?  If  they 
have  given  up  their  sons,  if  they  have  surrendered  the  great 
street  to  the  almost  exclusive  occupancy,  at  night,  of  painted 
harlots ;  have  they  also  given  up  their  daughters,  surrendered 
them  to  the  wiles  of  the  seducer  ?  do  they  let  them  go  out 
without  fear,  even  in  company  with  their  male  friends,  to  be 
jostled  upon  the  side- walks  by  midnight  ramblers,  and  seated 
at  the  same  table,  at  some  of  the  great  "saloons,"  side  by 
side  with  those  who  win  to  kill,  whose  trade  is  death,  whose 
life  is  gilded  misery,  though  enticing  as  the  siren's  song  ? 
Have  they  forgotten  that  we  are  all  creatures  of  surrounding 
circumstances,  subject  to  like  influences,  and  liable  to  the 
same  disease  as  those  who  breathe  the  same  atmosphere,  and 
if  that  is  impure,  those  who  breathe  it  may  become  so  ? 

Even  now,  while  I  write,  the  "New  York  Daily  Tribune," 
gives  this  "  Item  "  to  its  readers : — 

"  MYSTERIOUS  DISAPPEARANCE. — On  Sunday  evening  last,  between 

six  and  seven  o'clock,  Miss  G.  C left  her  father  in  Spring  street, 

near  Broadway,  to  go  to  he.r  brother-in-law's   (Mr.   B ),   No.  — 

Spring  street,  since  which  time  nothing  has  been  heard  of  her,  and  it 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  269 

is  feared  that  she  has  been  dealt  foully  with.  She  is  seventeen  yearg 
of  age,  good-looking  and  rather  tall ;  dark  complexion,  and  dark  eyes 
lisps  somewhat  when  in  conversation.  She  was  dressed  in  plaid,  light 
and  dark  stripe ;  Talma  cape ;  straw  bonnet,  trimmed  with  wMte  outside, 
and  green  and  white  inside.  Her  disappearance  has  caused  the  deepest 
affliction  to  her  family,  and  any  information  that  can  be  given  will  be 
gratefully  received  by  her  aged  parent,  No.  —  Spring  street." 

"  It  is  feared  that  she  has  been  foully  dealt  with."  Yes, 
and  it  ought  to  be  feared  that  "  good-looking,  rather  tall " 
young  girls,  are  foully  dealt  with  in  the  streets  of  this  city, 
every  night  in  the  week.  It  is  feared  she  is  not  the  first  girl 
of  seventeen,  whose  "mysterious  disappearance  has  caused 
the  deepest  affliction  to  her  family." 

"Any  information  will  be  gratefully  received."  Yes,  any 
information  will  be  gratefully  received  by  the  author  of  this 
book,  which  he  can  use  effectually  to  awaken  aged  parents  to 
the  fact,  that  each  one  of  these  girls  who  wander  the  streets 
at-  midnight,  or  who  fill  up  the  dens  of  infamy  that  line 
whole  blocks  of  some  of  the  best  streets  in  this  city,  is  some 
body's  child ;  some  "  mysterious  disappearance,"  that  has 
caused  deep  affliction,  and  will  cause  more,  for  she  is  now 
influencing  others  to  disappear  from  the  path  of  rectitude,  in 
the  same  way  that  she  did. 

Perhaps,  yea,  it  is  probable,  more  than  probable,  that  Miss 

G.  C has  been  inveigled  into  one  of  these  dens  where 

worse  than  cannibals  live,  for  they  only  eat  the  body,  while 
thiise  destroy  the  soul. 

How  long  would  a  house  be  permitted  to  stand,  where 


270  HOT     CORN. 

humail  flesh  was  served  up  as  a  banquet  for  those  who 
delighted  to  feast  upon  such  dainty  food  ?  A  house  where 
young  girls  were  driven  in  by  force  or  fascination,  to  be 
cooked  and  eaten  by  young  epicures  and  gouty  gormandizers. 
How  the  city's  indignation  would  boil  over,  and  how  the 
storm  of  wrath  would  beat  upon  that  house,  until  there  would 
not  be  one  stone  left  upon  another. 

Yet  how  calmly  that  same  public  sleeps  on  by  the  side  of 
a  thousand  worse  houses,  where  victims  are  worse  thau 
cooked  and  eaten  every  day — they  are  roasted  alivre. 

How  coldly  parents  will  read  that  "  mysterious  disappear 
ance  ;"  they  will  never  think  that  girl  has  been  destroyed  by 
cannibals,  far  worse  are  here — they  belong  to  savage  life. 

How  carelessly,  how  thoughtlessly  mothers  will  read  this 
page  that  tells  how  their  daughters  may  be  influenced  to  ruin 
themselves,  by  such  unfortunate  associations  as  they  must 
meet  with  in  their  walks  through  the  city,  while  our  munici 
pal  government  permits  the  streets  to  be  monopolized  by  the 
impure,  because  it  is  itself  just  what  the  echo  answered. 

How  I  would  rejoice  if  I  could  make  the  truth  manifest,  as 
regards  this  matter,  that,  "  to  the  pure  all  things  are  pure." 

Now,  let  us  walk  on. 

.  You  need  not  stop  to  drop  anything  into  the  hand  of  thai 
woman  with  a  child  on  her  lap.  True,  she  looks  like  a  pitia 
ble  object,  with  her  opium-drugged  infant  wrapped  in  that 
old  blue  cloak,  but  she  is  not.  She  is  a  professional  beggar. 
I  have  known  her  these  three  years.  That  child  is  not  hers 
It  is  hired  for  the  purpose.  It  draws  a  share  of  the  benefit, 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  2*71 

as  it  does  the  sympathy  of  those  who  are  attracted  by  that 
well-put-on,  appealing  look.  That  child  is  kept  by  a  woman 
who  keeps  three  others  "  to  let."  They  never  grow  too  big. 
Laudanum  is  not  the  food  that  infants  grow  upon.  They  will 
die  young,  and  others  will  be  begged,  borrowed,  or  stolen,  for 
the  same  purpose. 

There,  the  sixpence  you  have  given  that  little  child,  will  go 
into  the  till  of  that  "  family  grocery,"  before  we  are  a  block 
farther  on  our  way.  I  know  her. 

It  is  hardly  charity  to  give  to  that  man  ;  I  know  him  too, 
and  where  he  lives. 

"  But,  he  is  blind." 

I  know  it,  and  that  is  his  fortune.  With  it  he  supports 
himself  and  family  of  great  idle  girls  and  boys,  better  than 
many  others  live  who  labor.  He  is  a  stout,  rugged,  hearty 
man,  capable  of  doing  much  useful  labor,  if  he  had  any  one 
to  direct  him. 

"  Well,  here,  what  of  this  ?" 

Yes,  you  may  give  there;  no,  give  me  the  quarter,  see 
what  I  will  do  with  it.  I  will  buy  two  smiles. 

"  Good  evening,  Joseph,  how  do  you  do  this  evening  ?" 

"  Oh,  very  well,  sir,  thank  you.  How  are  you  this 
evening  ?" 

"  Very  well.  How  is  trade  with  you,  Joseph  ?  Do  these 
gay  people  buy  your  bouquets  ?" 

"  Well,  some  do,  sir,  but  these  big  boys  and  stout  men  can 
run  about  and  forestall  a  poor  black  man  who  has  got  no  legs." 

"Joseph,  has  that  sewing  woman  been  down  this  evening; 


272  HOT     CORN. 

the  one  who  always  stops  to  give  you  a  kind  word  and  look, 
and  smell  of  your  flowers  ?" 

"  What,  the  one  that  looks  so  pale,  the  one  who  make* 
shirt  collars  ;  the  one  you  gave  the  bouquet  to,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  I  want  you  to  give  her  another,  here  is  the 
money." 

"  I  wish  I  had  known  it  a  few  minutes  ago,  for  her  daugh 
ter  went  by  ;  she  stopped  a  moment  just  to  admire  this  one, 
and  said,  how  she  did  wish  she  could  afford  to  buy  it  for  her 
mother ;  and  then  she  said,  it  did  not  matter,  she  had  such 
good  news  to  tell  her,  and  she  picked  up  her  basket,  and 
away  she  ran." 

There  was  a  queer  idea  came  into  my  mind,  when  he  said 
basket,  just  as  though  there  could  be  but  one  girl  out  to-night 
with  a  basket.  I  was  about  to  drive  away  the  idea  as  a  fool 
ish  one,  when  something  whispered  me,  "  Ask  him."  So  I 
did. 

"  A  girl  with  a  basket  ?  Who  is  that  girl  with  a  basket ; 
do  you  know  her  name  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  We  call  her,  the  little  pedler.  She  is  a  nice 
girl.  Her  mother's  name  is  May." 

The  queer  idea  was  a  true  one  after  all.  And  so  this 
woman,  whom  I  had  often  seen  speaking  pleasant  words  to 
this  poor  legless  Negro  man,  who  sits  night  after  night,  upon 
the  Broadway  side-walk,  selling  bouquets,  is  Mrs.  May,  the 
little  pedler's  mother. 

"  Do  you  know  where  she  lives  ? — could  you  get  anybody 
to  carry  this  to  her  to-night  I" 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  273 

"  Yes,  sir,  liere  is  Tom  Top,  lie  will  go  in  a  minute ;  ha 
will  do  anything  for  me,  or  for  a  lady  ;  he  is  ragged  and  dirty, 
but  he  is  a  good  boy  ;  it  is  a  pity  he  had  not  somebody  to  be 
good  to  him.  Tom,  will  you  go  to  Mrs.  May's  for  me  ? 
Stella,  the  little  pedler's  mother,  you  know  where  she  lives  I" 

"  Yes,  sir,  shall  I  carry  that  ?     Is  that  for  Stella  ?" 

"  No,  that  is  for  her  mother." 

"  And  this,"  said  Mr.  Lovetree,  picking  up  another  beauty, 
u  this  is  for  Stella.  Stop,  Tom.  Here  is  a  shilling  for  you. 
Don't  tell  who  sent  you.  Now  let  us  go  on.  You  know  this 
poor  black  fellow,  then,  do  you  ?  What  is  his  name  ?" 

"  Joseph  Butler.  He  was  a  sailor.  He  was  shipwrecked, 
and  lost  his  legs  by  freezing,  fourteen  years  ago.  He  has 
been  to  sea  five  years  since,  as  cook,  hobbling  around  on 
the  stumps.  Now,  he  supports  his  family  by  selling  bouquets. 
Did  you  ever  see  a  finer  face  ?  Always  cheerful,  intelligent, 
and  polite ;  it  is  a  pleasure  to  buy  flowers  of  him.  It  is  a 
wonder  that  ladies  and  gentlemen  do  not  all  feel  it  a  duty 
and  pleasure  both,  to  buy  all  their  bouquets  of  this  poor  cripple." 

"It  is  because  they  never  think.  If  they  did,  they  cer 
tainly  would." 

"Then,  I  must  ask  them  to  think.  I  must  try  and 
awaken  the  sympathies  of  the  benevolent  to  look  at  this  poor 
unfortunate  black  man  as  they  pass,  and  see  if  they  do  not" 
think  him  a  fit  subject  for  honest  sympathy.  He  is  not  a 
beggar.  He  gives  a  fair  equivalent  for  your  money.  At 
least,  give  him  a  kind  word,  or  pleasant  look,  and  he  will 
return  you  the  same." 

12* 


274  HOT     CORN. 

How  we  do  linger  in  our  walk.  So  will  you,  reader,  if  you 
come  to  New  York,  and  undertake  to  see  all  the  curiosities 
of  Broadway,  in  one  night. 

At  length,  we  reached  Mrs.  Laylor's.  It  is  a  handsome 
house,  in  a  quiet  street.  My  friend  hesitated  about  entering. 
He  thought  I  must  be  mistaken.  It  did  not  look  like 
what  he  had  conceived  of  such  houses.  Then  he  was  afraid 
they  would  suspect  us,  and  would  not  let  us  in. 

"  For  the  fact  is,  we  do  not  look  much  like  the  class  of 
men  who  visit  such  places,"  said  he. 

"  That  shows  how  little  you  know  of  life  in  New  York. 
Let  me  manage  this  matter,  and  I  assure  you,  they  will  think 
us  two  old  rakes,  rich  ones,  too,  out  of  whom  they  may  make 
a  harvest." 

So  we  went  up  the  broad,  high  steps,  and  rang  the  bell 
with  a  jerk,  that  said,  as  near  as  bells  can  speak,  that  is 
somebody  that  has  been  here  before.  The  lady,  as  is  the 
usual  practice,  came  herself  to  the  door,  unlocked  it,  and 
opened  it  a  little  way,  where  it  is  held  by  a  chain,  so  that  she 
could  reconnoitre,  and  if  the  company  did  not  suit,  or  if  a 
stranger  applied,  she  would  refuse  him,  particularly,  if  she 
had  plenty  of  company,  unless  he  could  give  very  good 
references. 

I  thought  of  that,  and  so  I  said,  with  the  same  confidence 
ihat  I  had  put  into  my  pull  of  the  bell,  "  Good  evening,  Mrs. 
Laylor,  how  do  you  do  this  evening  ?  You  were  unwell  the 
other  evening  when  I  was  here.  This  is  Mr.  Treewell,  from 
the  South."  That  was  an  "open  sesame,"  that  undid  the 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  '  275 

chain  directly,  and  we  walked  in  as  old  acquaintances.  True, 
she  could  not  exactly  locate  us,  but  our  easy  assurance 
carried  us  through. 

"  Walk  into  the  parlor,  gentlemen,  there  *is  nobody  there, 
we  are  quite  alone  this  evening.  Or,  will  you  go  in  the  back 
room ;  the  young  ladies  and  I  were  having  a  little  game  of 
whist  together,  to  drive  off  the  dullness." 

Yes,  to  drive  off  the  dullness,  thought  I ;  to  get  rid  of  the 
horror  of  thinking.  That  is  the  greatest  curse  that  this  class 
of  women  have  to  endure.  They  cannot  bear  to  think. 
They  must  have  something  "  to  drive  off  the  dullness."  If 
they  have  no  company,  they  must  play  cards,  or  something 
else  to  keep  away  thought.  If  they  have  company,  wine  is 
the  panacea.  They  cannot  afford  to  buy  it  themselves,  but 
they  often  persuade  gentlemen  to  do  so,  pretending  to  be  very 
thirsty,  when  they  have  just  been  drinking,  because  that  is  a 
part  of  the  contract  upon  which  they  are  kept  by  the  mis 
tress  of  the  house.  If  a  girl  had  any  conscientious  scruples 
about  coaxing  a  gentleman  to  buy,  or  about  drinking,  or 
wasting  all  the  wine  that  all  of  them  would  buy,  she  would 
be  trained  into  the  work,  or  turned  out  of  doors.  So  that  it 
is  a  very  rare  thing  for  one  of  them  to  go  to  bed  sober.  In 
the  morning,  or  rather  towards  night,  when  they  wake  up, 
they  are  almost  unablo  to  dress  themselves  for  the  next  scene 
in  the  round  of  dissipation,  until  they  have  sent  out  and  got 
a  little  cheap  rum,  "  to  bring  them  up." 

Those  who  have  studied  the  life  of  these  poor,  wretched 


26  HOT     CORN. 

women  as  carefully  as  I  have,  will  not  wonder  at  the  short 
ness  of  it. 

Of  course  we  accepted  the  very  polite  invitation  to  go  it 
where  the  young  ladies  were.  We  had  an  object  in  doing 
so.  Neither  of  us  knew  Mrs.  Morgan,  and  if  we  should 
inquire  for  her,  if  it  suited  the  convenience  of  madame  she 
would  palm  off  any  other  one  that  she  thought  she  could  make 
pass.  I  adopted  my  plan  of  operations  very  quickly.  I  thought 
if  they  had  had  no  company  yet  to-night,  they  had  had  no 
wine,  and  consequently  would  not  be  in  the  best  of  moods 
to  be  communicative.  As  soon  as  we  were  introduced,  I 
ordered  a  bottle  of  wine  and  thought  I  would  find  out  if 
either  of  the  three  girls  present  answered  to  the  name  of  Lucy, 
and  if  she  did,  I  intended  to  whisper  one  word  in  her  ear,  and 
that  word  should  be  "  Athalia,"  and  watch  what  emotion  it 
produced. 

It  would  be  entirely  impossible  for  a  stranger  to  form  an 
idea  what  an  emotion  the  very  name  of  wine  caused  among 
them.  They  were  fairly  longing  for  it.  We  were  in  the 
good  graces  of  all  the  household  at  once.  I  pleaded  head 
ache  not  to  drink.  Lovetree  took  his  glass  with  them.  I 
fixed  upon  one  that  I  thought  perhaps  might  be  Athalia,  but 
soon  found  that  she  was  called  Nannette. 

Another  was  Belle,  and  the  third  was  Adelaide.  The  latter 
was  one  of  the  most  perfectly  beautiful  girls  in  face  and  form 
I  ever  saw,  and  she  had  really  pretty  red  hair.  I  have  often 
met  or  passed  her  since  that  in  the  street  and  never  without 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  277 

admiring  her  beauty  and  thinking  <of  her  mother,  and  how 
she  must  mourn  "  a  girl  lost." 

I  was  now  satisfied  that  Athalia  was  not  in  the  room,  and 
I  said  carelessly.  "  Where  is  that  other  girl  I  saw  here,  with 
brown  hair  and  blue  eyes,  not  very  tall  ?" 

"  What  was  her  name  ?" 

"  Oh,  confound  names,  I  never  can  think  of  names." 

"  Oh,  I  know  who  he  means,"  said  Adelaide,  "  it  is  Lucy, 
Lucy  Smith." 

"  Yes,  yes,  that  is  it.     It  is  Lucy  at  any  rate." 

"  She  is  in  her  room.  She  has  got  the  dumps — the  blues 
— I  should  not  wonder  if  she  was  all  melted  by  this  time, 
she  has  been  crying  these  three  days." 

"  Crying,  why  what  has  she  to  cry  about  ?  I  should  not 
think  anybody  need  to  cry  in  this  house,  you  never  cry,  do 
you  2" 

The  very  question  almost  brought  a  tear,  but  she  drove  it 
back. 

"  Well,  Lucy  must  come  down  and  have  some  wine.  Get 
her  down,  and  we  will  have  another  bottle." 

"  She  won't  come.  We  are  all  tired  of  trying.  She  has 
got  the  pouts,  because  Mrs.  Laylor  took  her  trunk  away  from 
her  to  keep  for  her  board.  She  don't  make  anything.  All 
she  ever  did  make  was  out  of  Frank  Barkley,  and  that  she 
gave  to  redeem  her  watch  and  a  good-for-nothing  old  Bible  I 
don't  see  what  she  wants  of  that." 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  have  her  down — I  have  no  opinion 
of  having  any  girl  in  the  dumps.  Where  is  her  room !" 


278  HOT    CORN. 

"  Third  floor  back  room.     That  is  right,  go  and  bring  her 

out  whether  or  no.     She  has  hardly  been  out  for  a  week  till 

to-day  Mrs.  Laylor  took  her  out  riding  with  her,  to  try  to  put 

'    a  little  life  in  her,  for  fear  she  would  die  on  her  hands,  and 

she  would  have  to  bury  her  for  charity." 

"  Well,  well,  I  will  bring  her  down,  see  if  I  don't.  Come, 
Treewell,  if  she  will  nofrcome  without  we  will  bring  her." 

So  away  we  went  upstairs,  now  satisfied  that  we  were  on 
the  right  trail,  and  that  we  had  completely  lulled  all  suspicion 
that  we  wanted  anything  of  Lucy  Smith,  except  to  compel 
the  poor  heart-sick  woman  to  join  in  a  Bacchanalian  revel,  at 
which  her  soul  revolted.  Up,  up  we  went,  passed  three 
"  private  rooms,"  in  which  we  will  not  seek  to  look,  for  they 
are  occupied  by  those  who  come  veiled  and  in  the  dark. 
Here  is  the  room  we  want.  We  knocked  but  received  no 
welcome  "  come  in." 

How  quick  she  would  open  the  door  if  she  knew  who  was 
waiting  for  admission.  Tired  of  knocking,  we  enter  unbid 
den,  and  find  the  room  empty.  The  prisoner  has  escaped. 

The  truth  flashed  upon  my  mind  in  a  moment.  She  has 
.  gone  off  with  Mrs.  May.  Mr.  Lovetree  thought  not,  for  Stella 
said  they  would  not  let  her  go  out  except  some  one  in  the 
house  went  with  her  to  watch  her. 

"  No  matter.  I  am  almost  sure  that  woman  has  got  her 
away.  These  women  are  great  at  contrivance.  Very  likely 
she  came  prepared  for  it,  as  Stella  told  her  of  course,  all  that 
Mrs.  Morgan  had  told  her." 

We  made  a  light  and  the  first  thing  that  Lovetree  saw  was 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  279 

the  Bible,  and  Athalia's  name — her  age  and  birth-place  and 
the  age  and  names  of  her  father  and  mother  and  grandfathei 
and  grandmother,  a  complete  family  record.  I  thought  the 
man  would  go  crazy.  It  would  have  made  him  nearly  crazy 
if  he  had  found  her  an  inmate  here,  as  much  lost  to  shame 
as  those  we  had  just  been  carousing  with,  and  now  to  find 
that  she  was  not  here  put  him  into  a  perfect  agony.  He 
thought  he  could  not  live  till  morning  without  seeing  her. 
At  first  we  thought  of  going  directly  to  Mrs.  May's  but  then 
we  recollected  we  did  not  know  where  she  lived  and  could 
not  find  out,  for  I  had  lost  her  card  that  Stella  gave  me. 

Finally  we  concluded  to  go  down  and  Jalk  a  minute  in  the 
same  kind  of  sang  froid  manner,  to  keep  up  our  assumed 
characters  and  then  go  home  and  await  coming  events. 

We  were  rallied  as  we  entered  the  room  with  a  jeering 
laugh  at  not  being  able  to  bring  one  woman  between  us  both. 

Then  I  pretended  to  get  angry  at  being  sent  upon  a  fool's 
errand,  to  a  room  where  nobody  was  at  home.  At  that  Mrs. 
Laylor  started. 

"  Was  she  not  in  the  room  ?" 

"No,  nor  has  not  been  lately.  You  are  playing  tricks 
with  the  wrong  persons,  trying  to  fool  us." 

"  Indeed,  gentlemen,  upon  my  honor  it  is  no  trick." 

She  rang  the  servants'  bell  violently.  "Martha,  do  you 
know  where  Lucy  Smith  is?  She  is  not  in  her  room. 
Have  you  let  her  out  to-night  ?" 

"No,  ma'am.  I  have  not  let  anybody  out  but  that 
sewing  woman." 


280  HOT     CORN. 

V  Where  is  Kate  ?  Send  Kate  up.  Kate  have  you  let  any 
body  out  to-night  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am.     I  let  that  sewing  woman  out." 

"  You  let  her  out !     Martha  says  she  let  her  out." 

"  So  I  did." 

"And  so  did  I." 

"Both  of  you." 

"I  did." 

"Well,  I  did." 

"  You  have  let  out  the .  Get  out  of  the  room,  you 

stupid  Irish s.  You  have  let  out  the  sewing  woman, 

sure  enough.  I  have  lost  my  bet  which  I  made  with 
Frank,  of  a  hundred  dollars  that  I  would  keep  her  here 
till  she  would  not  want  to  go  away." 

And  there  was  such  a  string  of  oaths  as  I  never  heard  be 
fore,  and  hope  I  never  shall  hear  again,  particularly  from 
female  profane  lips.  None  but  a  drunken  slave  driver,  ever 
poured  out  such  a  stream  of  awful  language,  full  of  oaths,  anger 
and  billingsgate  expressions,  at  the  escape  of  one  of  his  vic 
tims,  as  she  did  at  the  escape  of  a  woman  whom  she  had 
determined  to  debase  to  her  own  level,  until  she  had  brought 
her  to  that  condition  that  she  would  feel  degraded  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  would  know  that  all  her  own  sex  had  closed  and 
barred  the  door  against  her,  so  that  she  could  never  return  to 
the  paths  of  virtue,  and  she  would  be  to  her  mistress  a  "  profit 
able  investment,"  for  she  would  be  attractive,  by  her  beauty 
and  manners,  and  "  draw  custom  to  the  house."  But  she  had 
escaped — gone  off  too  in  a  temper  of  mind  which  might  send 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  281 

retribution  back  upon  the  head  of  one  who  under  the  guise  of 
friendship  had  first  robbed,  then  by  pretended  debt,  ensla\  ed 
her  mind,  coaxed  and  almost  driven  her  into  intoxication, 
and  then  prostituted  her  most  shamefully.  It  would  be  idle 
to  pretend  that  Athalia  had  escaped  without  sin.  She  had 
not.  She  had  sinned  deeply.  She  said  afterwards  while 
claiming  some  extenuation,  though  by  no  means  trying  to 
justify  her  fall,  that  her  mind  was  so  wrought  upon  by  her 
disappointments  of  life,  by  her  lone  and  friendless  condition, 
by  the  accumulation  of  debt,  by  the  terrible  treachery  of  those 
she  had  entrusted  herself  with  as  such  disinterested  friends, 
by  her  anxiety  to  obtain  her  valued  keepsakes  and  get  money 
enough  to  redeem  them,  and  then  escape  from  the  pandemo 
nium  she  found  that  she  had  unwittingly  entered,  that  she  had 
determined  to  drown  her  thoughts  in  wine,  and  then  she  accept 
ed  the  oft-repeated  proposals  of  Frank  Barkley  to  redeem  her 
watch,  which  he  honorably  did,  but  which  another  friend, 
one  of  Mrs..  Laylor's  friends,  whom  she  forced  her  to  accept, 
and  which  cost  her  the  friendship  of  Frank,  robbed  her  of,  and 
carried  off  so  that  she  never  saw  it  again ;  whether  he  kept 
it  or  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Laylor,  she  never  knew. 

Often  she  intended  to  fly,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
could  not  get  away ;  she  was  kept  in  one  constant  whirl  of 
excitement  so  that  she  could  not  reason  with  herself  long 
enough  to  determine  what  to  do.  What  deterred  her  most, 
was  that  she  had  nowhere  to  go  to,  no  friend  to  call  upon 
for  counsel  or  assistance,  and  thus  she  went  on  from  day  to 
day,  ad f*-\ lag  one  plan  in  the  morning  to  discard  it  at  night. 


282  HOT    CORN. 

Frank  was  very  kind  to  her  in  a  certain  measure.  He  liked 
her,  but  it  was  a  ver"  selfish  liking.  He  did  not  like  to  hear  her 
talk  about  leaving.  He  linked  her  there,  and  he  was  almost 
as  much  her  jailer  as  Mrs.  Laylor.  He  took  her  out  to  all 
manner  of  dissipation,  theatres,  saloons,  late  suppers,  balls  and 
frolics,  in  which  strong  drink — not  Athalia  Morgan — acted  as 
wild  a  part  as  the  wildest.  But  he  offered  her  no  means  of 
escape.  She  began  to  have  a  sort  of  fondness  for  Frank. 
What  woman  can  avoid  liking  one  who  is  devoted  to  her  ? 
But  this  devotion  to  one  was  not  what  Mrs.  Laylor  wished. 
It  was  not  what  brought  the  most  money  to  her  iron  chest. 
She  would  like  to  negotiate  the  charms  of  Athalia  to  some 
rich  libertine  every  day,  whenever  she  could  meet  with  one 
fool  enough  to  pay  her  well  for  her  influence  with  the  "  young 
widow." 

Among  the  most  determined  of  her  suitors,  was  a  young 
Frenchman,  who  used  every  art  which  he  knew  well  how  to 
use  with  words  and  money,  to  win  Athalia's  favor.  As  a  last 
resort,  he  pledged  a  splendid  diamond  ring  to  Mrs.  Laylor,  if 
she  would  accomplish  what  he  could  not. 

When  all  other  arts  fail  to  work  ruin  and  misery  in  a 
woman's  mind,  there  is  one  left,  one  which  concentrates  all  the 
power  of  all  the  lies  of  the  father  of  deception.  It  is  jealousy. 

There  is  a  little  story  in  "  Othello,"  about  the  arts  of  a  vil 
lain,  to  produce  mischief  by  that  power.  It  is  nothing  com 
pared  with  the  villainy  and  lies  invented  to  produce  jealousy 
between  Frank  and  Athalia,  so  as  to  let  in  the  Frenchman, 
and  win  that  ring. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  283 

Villainy  is  too  often  successful  in  this  life.  It  was  in  this 
case.  Jealousy,  a  feeling  of  revenge,  drives  more  women  to 
infidelity  towards  those  they  love,  than  all  other  causes. 

It  did  its  perfect  work  with  Athalia,  and  then  the  fiend 
who  had  accomplished  the  work,  laughed  at  her,  and  told  her 
how  svie  had  been  fooled,  thinking  it  would  have-  the  usual 
effect,  to  make  her  careless  of  what  she  did  in  future.  It  had 
an  entirely  different  effect  upon  Athalia.  It  was  this  that 
produced  the  state  of  mind  that  Adelaide  called  the  dumps, 
the  blues,  and  the  tears  that  Stella  saw  her  shed.  Stella 
had  told  her  mother  much  that  Athalia  told  her,  much  that 
the  child  did  not  understand,  but  the  mother  did,  for  she 
knew  how  girls  were  inveigled  into  those  houses,  and  kept 
there  as  prisoners. 

I  have  lately  witnessed  a  scene,  highly  illustrative  of  this 
fact.  It  is  one  of  the  "  Life  Scenes  of  New  York." 

Coming  up  one  of  the  streets  west  of  Broadway,  about  one 
o'clock  at  night,  I  saw  a  fellow  hovering  near  a  house,  whom 
I  recognized  as  a  Negro  wood-sawyer  that  I  had  seen  the  day 
before,  engaged  at  the  same  house,  putting  wood  down  the 
cella*-  grate.  I  knew  him  or  thought  I  did,  as  a  poor  but 
honest  man,  and  I  felt  pained, with  a  fear  that  I  had  been 
deceived,  that  he  had  left  the  grate  unfastened,  and  now  was 
about  to  steal  something  from  the  cellar.  I  passed  on  around 
the  next  corner,  out  of  sight,  and  then  turned  back  arid* 
crossed  over,  where  I  could  have  a  full  view  of  his  operations. 
There  were  no  lamps  burning,  because  there  should,  or  might 
have  been  moonlight,  if  it  had  been  clear  ;  as  it  was,  it  was  a 


284  HOT     CORN. 

fitting  time  for  the  burglar's  trade.  Directly,  the  felloe 
approached  the  grate,  opened  it  carefully,  and  drew  up  a  trunk. 
My  heart  beat  with  excitement,  fear,  and  sorrow.  I  was  just 
on  the  point  of  calling,  "  Watch,"  I  must  own  with  a  view 
of  letting  the  fellow  escape,  and  saving  the  trunk,  when  I  saw 
a  bonnet,  then  a  shawl,  and  then  a  full  suit  of  woman's 
clothes  follow  the  trunk  up  from  that  dark  recess.  My  mind 
was  somewhat  relieved ;  my  honest  wood-sawyer  might  be 
honest  still,  though  he  was  probably  assisting  a  dishonest 
woman  ;  else  why  did  she  leave  that  house,  to  all  appearance, 
an  honest  house,  for  all  that  I  had  ever  seen  in  passing  it  a 
hundred  times,  in  such  a  clandestine  manner.  The  Negro 
walked  on  with  the  trunk  on  his  shoulder,  and  the  woman 
followed.  It  was  a  scene  of  such  frequent  occurrence,  that  it 
would  excite  no  suspicion  or  question  from  a  policeman.  He 
would  think  it  was  a  passenger  by  the  train,  from  Boston,  or 
Albany,  or  the  Erie  railroad,  all  of  which  make  midnight 
arrivals. 

On  they  went,  block  after  block,  and  I  followed,  till  I 
thought  the  chase  likely  to  prove  a  long  one,  and  then  I 
stepped  up  to  the  woman,  and  laying  my  hand  up^n  her 
shoulder,  said,  "  Stop  !"  She  uttered  a  little  cry  of  alarm, 
and  said,  "  Oh,  don't  take  me  up,  please  don't." 

The  Negro  stopped,  looked  round,  and  set  down  the  trunk 
nastily,  evidently  supposing  that  a  star  had  nabbed  her,  and 
that  the  better  part  o.1'  a  fight  consists  in  running  away. 
There  was  a  light  here,  for  the  lamp-lighters  were  just  going 
their  late  rounds.  He  gave  one  glance  back  before  he 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  285 

f 

started,  to  be  sure  he  had  good  cause  to  run,  and  instantly 
burst  into  a  most  merry  fit  of  laughter,  very  unlike  what 
might  be  supposed  that  of  a  caught  burglar. 

"  Ila !  ha !  ha  !  ki,  missee,  you  don't  know  dat  gemman  ? 
You  nebber  seed  dat  geminan  'fore  ?  You  tink  him  a  star  ? 
Look  at  um.  You  tink  he  look  so  he  hurt  you  ?  He 
wouldn't  hurt  a  child,  much  more  a  woman.  I  know. dat 
gemman.  Ki,  I  mighty  glad  to  see  him.  'Spose  tell  him  all 
about  um  ?  Spec  he  say  a  body  has  a  right  to  steal  he  own 
trunk,  and  run  away  from  such  a  house  as  dat." 

"  Such  a  house  as  that,  Peter ;  is  that  not  a  good  house  ?" 

"  Well,  spec  him  house  good  enough,  but  spec  he  folks  dat 
lib  dare,  not  'zactly  straight  up  and  down  like  dog  hind 
leg." 

"  Why,  Peter,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Is  not  that  Mr. 
Ingram,  whose  name  I  see  on  the  door,  and  whom  I  know  as 
apparently  a  gentleman  of  wealth  and  leisure,  for  I  have 
often  seen  him  associating  with  gentlemen  about  the  hotels ; 
is  he  not  the  gentleman  of  the  house  ?" 

"  Gentium  !  Lord,  sir,  he  is  dat  woman's  man,  her  pimp, 
she  gives  him  all  clem  fine  clothes  and  gold  rings,  and  he  gets 
fellows  to  come  an  see  her  gals." 

"  Mercy  on  me  !  The  outside  of  the  platter  is  made  clean, 
while  the  inside  is  full  of  dead  men's  bones." 

"  Dat's  just  what  Agnes  says  ;  she  says,  she  find  dead  men's 
bones  in  the  ashes,  and  buttons,  and  bits  of  burnt  woman's 
clothes  in  a  pile  in  the  cellar,  and  she  seed  woman's  ghost 
dare,  and  she  won't  stay  in  dat  house  no  how  can  fix  um,  and 


286.  HOT    CORN. 

dat's  what  it  mean  'bout  I  got  dis  trunk ;  did  you  see  how  I 
get  him,  massa  ?" 

"Yes,  I  did,  and  I  want  to  know  something  about  why 
you  *  get  him '  at  this  time  of  night  out  of  that  cellar.  The 
ghost  story  won't  do  ;  if  she  was  afraid  of  ghosts  she  would 
not  go  down  into  that  cellar  at  night  any  more  than  she 
would  go  down  to  her  grave.  It  won't  do." 

"  Oh,  sir,  the  ghost  goes  upstairs  every  night,  to  stay  in  the 
room  where  she  was  seduced.  None  of  the  girls  in  the  house 
will  stay  in  that  room.  They  gave  it  to  me  when  first  I  went 
there.  I  did  not  know  it  was  haunted  then,  but  I  found  out 
afterwards  that  it  was,  for  she  told  me  so,  and  how  she  was  shut 
up  in  the  coal  cellar,  and  starved,  and  suffocated  to  death,  and 
then  cut  up,  and  part  of  her  body  burned,  and  part  buried 
in  lime  and  ashes,  and  how,  if  I  would  look  in  one  corne? 
of  the  cellar,  I  would  find  some  of  her  bones,  and  I  did ;  and 
then  I  determined  to  run  away,  and  that  is  why  I  am  here." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?" 

"  I  am  going  home  with  Peter,  I  have  got  nowhere  else  to 
go,  and  then  I  shall  try  to  get  a  place." 

"  A  place  !  Why,  Peter,  is  not  this  one  of  the  girls  of  that 
house  ?" 

"  Why,  no,  not  'zactly ;  but  'spose  you  go  wid  us  in  my 
house,  he  close  by  here  now,  and  she  tell  you  all  about  herself. 
I  spec  she  not  a  bad  gal,  sir." 

"  Go  ahead  then  ;"  and  he  shouldered  his  load,  and  went  a 
few  steps  farther,  and  then  turned  into  a  dark  alley,  where  I 
should  have  hesitated  about  following  the  burglars,  but  now 


LIFE     SCENES    IN     NEW    YORK.  287 

followed  the  honest,  good-hearted  wood-sawyer,  and  his  pro 
tege  with  delightful  pleasure,  up  the  long,  dark  alley  into  the 
centre  of  the  block,  and  there  was  a  tenant  house,  inhabited 
by  the  better  class  of  blacks.  Compared  with  some  of  those 
full  of  foreigners,  it  was  a  little  paradise.  Up,  up  to  the 
sixth  story,  that  is  where  the  poor  live ;  here  is  where,  the 
poor  legless  Negro  flower-seller  lives,  with  his  nice  little 
family ;  a  door  opened  as  we  approached,  and  a  light  shined 
out,  and  a  voice  said : 

"Is  dat  you,  Peter?  Has  you  got  her,  Peter!  Thank 
God  for  that!" 

It  was  Peter's  wife,  rejoicing  at  the  rescue  of  a  woman 
from  perdition.  One  of  a  poor,  down-trodden  race,  a  mem 
ber  of  a  Christian  churoh,  yet  considered  unworthy  to  sit  by 
the  side  of  white  skinned  (thin  skinned)  Christians,  doing  a 
most  Christian  act,  such  an  one  as  many  of  her  sisters  in  the 

church  would  consider  beneath  their  dignity  to  do. 

^ 
We  entered  Peter's  home.     It  was  but   one  small  room, 

scantily,  yet  neatly  furnished.  There  was  a  little  stove,  and 
all  necessary  cooking  utensils,  and  plenty  of  dishes,  a  table,  a 
bureau,  a  carpet  on  the  floor,  a  stand  in  one  corner  covered 
with  a  clean  white  cloth,  and  on  this  a  large  Bible,  covered 
with  green  baize,  lying  open,  with  Phebe's  spectacles  on  the 
page,  indicating  her  employment  while  waiting  and  watching 
for  Peter  to  return,  as  she  expected,  with  company — one  more 
ihan  she  expected.  There  was  a  bedstead  in  one  corner,  from 
which  a  portion  of  the  bed  had  been  removed  and  made  into 
a  nice  pallet  upon  the  floor,  in  readiness  for  an  expected 


288  ^  HOT     CORN. 

lodger.  Agnes  met  a  warm  welcome  from  Phebe.  "We 
shall  see  Phebe  again,  out  on  another  errand  of  mercy.  In 
some  of  these  ever  shifting  scenes,  we  may  have  another 
glimpse  of  Agnes.  Peter  explained  to  Phebe,  how  I 
happened  to  be  in  company,  and  then  we  all  sat  down  to  hear 
Agnes's  story.  I  shall  not  tell  it  now.  But  I  will  tell  here 
another  little  story,  which  will  give  a  clue  to  what  she  said 
about  the  haunted  house. 

It  is  a  story  about  "  a  girl  lost." 

The  "  Tribune  "  one  day  published  an  appeal  to  the  kind- 
hearted  of  the  city,  to  give  a  distracted  family  some  informa 
tion  of  "  a  girl  lost." 

She  was  "  a  good-looking,  rather  tall  girl,  seventeen  years 
of  age,  dark  complexion  and  dark  hair.  She  was  well- 
dressed,  and  started  to  go  from  her  father's  house  in  Spring 
street,  near  Broadway,  to  her  brother's  in  the  same  street. 

"  And  she  was  lost !" 

Some  stranger  who  reads  that  simple  announcement,  one 
who  has  spent  a  night  at  one  of  the  three  great  hotels  on  the 
corners  of  Spring  street  and  Broadway,  may  wonder  that  a 
girl  should  be  lost  in  such  a  respectable  neighborhood.  He 
does  not  know  that  the  guests  of  one  of  those  great  hotels 
look  down  from  one  side  upon  one  of  the  worst  gambling 
hells  and  police-permitted  gambling  lottery  offices  in  the 
city,  and  on  the  other  side  upon  still  worse  premises; 
houses  which  the  vocabulary  of  infamous  language  has  no 
words  black  enough  to  describe ;  houses  which  are  ever  open 
for  innocent  young  girls  to  enter — from  which  innocent  young 


'SPEC   A   Bony  HAS  A   RIGHT  TO  STEAL  OWN  TRUNK." — Page 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW     TORK.  289 

^irlo  never  return.  They  are  "lost."  This  is  not  the  first 
girl  lost  in  New  York.  These  are  not  the  first  parents  who 
have  been  deeply  afflicted;  who  have  appealed  in  vain 
through  the  press  for  any  information  of  "  a  girl  lost." 

I  have  a  little  incident  to  relate  of  a  girl  lost.  A  few  years 
ago  No.  000  Church  street,  was  accounted  the  "  luckiest  house 
in  the  street."  There  are  a  great  many  unlucky  ones  in  that 
street  now,  and  that  particular  one  is  esteemed  the  most  unlucky 
of  all  of  them.  It  should  be  so.  It  was  in  that  house  about  three 
years  ago,  that  a  girl  was  lost.  For  the  sake  of  her  parents, 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  large  family  of  relatives,  I  will  not  give 
her  true  name.  You  may  call  it  Julia  Montgomery.  She  was 
just  such  a  girl  as  the  one  described  in  the  "  Mysterious  Dis 
appearance  !"  She  was  tall  and  handsome,  just  seventeen, 
with  dark  hair  and  eyes,  and  well  dressed.  She  lived  in  one  of 
the  river  towns,  and  came  down  upon  one  of  the  barges  that 
float  down  such  a  multitude  of  things  produced  by  farmers, 
in  company  with  her  father  and  mother,  who  brought  some 
of  their  own  produce  to  market.  On  the  same  boat  were 
two  young  men  who  had  been  up  the  river,  they  said,  on  a 
sporting  excursion.  This  was  true.  But  they  might  have 
added,  "  What  is  sport  to  us  is  death  to  you."  They  were 
gamblers.  On  the  passage  they  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Julia,  and  by  their  bland  manners  completely  won  the  confi 
dence  of  the  old  folks.  When  they  arrived,  they  were  very 
anxious  that  Julia  should  go  home  with  them  and  see  their 
sisters.  They  were  not  so  anxious  that  her  mother  should  go, 
but  they  insisted  very  hard  that  she  should,  because  they 


200  HOT     COHN. 

knew  she  would  not;   she   had  her  butter   and   eggs  and 
chickens  to  sell,  and  lots  of  shopping  to  do,  so  Julia  went 
alone.     She  came  back  to  the  boat  towards  night  to  tell  her 
mother  what  nice  girls  the  Miss  Camptowns  were,  and  that 
they  wanted  she  should  go  with  them  to  the  theatre,  and  then 
as  it  would  be  late,  stay  all  night.     The  mother  consented, 
as  Mr.  Camptown  was  such  a  fine  young  man.     After  the 
play  they  had  an  oyster  supper  and  wine,  and  Julia  became 
very  much  elated.     Then  they  went  home,  to  Mr.  Camptown's 
home,  which  was  no  other  than  that  notorious  Church  street 
den,  and  the  "  sisters"  the  most  notorious  sinners  in  it.     Of 
course  more  wine  was  drank,  and  Julia  became  oblivious  of 
what  transpired.     She  waked  to  consciousness  next  morning 
to  find   herself — "a  girl  lost."     Almost   delirious,  she   flew 
from  the  wicked  scoundrel  at  her  side  to  the  street  door,  to 
find  it  barred  against  her.     In  vain  she  begged  and  prayed, 
and  cried  to  be  let  out.     The  soul  incarcerated  in  the  infernal 
regions  might  as  well  pray  for  egress.     She  finds  in  both 
cases  only  scoffing  at  the  victim's  agony.     Then  she  grew 
wildly  furious,  and  then  they  tied  her  hands  and  feet  and 
carried  her  down  into  the  coal  cellar,  "  to  let  her  get  over  her 
fit,  and  keep  her  out  of  sight  till  the  old  woman  was  out  of 
the  way."     For  three  days,  Camptown  watched  her  father 
and  mother,  and  then  they  gave  up  and  went  home  with 
heavy  hearts,  for  "  a  girl  was  lost."     Yes,  she  was  u  lost." 
Then  Camptown  went  back  to  enjoy  his  "  country  beauty." 
She  was  lost  to  him  also.     In  some  of  the  pullings  down  and 
diggings  up  in  that  street,  all  that  rejnains  to  earth  will  make 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  291 

another  "  Item  "  in  a  daily  paper.     It  will  be  headed  "  Human 
bones  found." 

The  inmates  of  that  house  soon  left.  It  was  no  longer  a 
lucky  house.  The  ghost  of  that  murdered  girl  walked 
through  every  room.  One  in  particular,  it  never  allowed  any 
one  to  occupy.  It  is  said  that  that  ghost  still  haunts  that 
house.  It  is  still  an  unlucky  house.  The  old  harridan  who 
kept  it — well  known  in  that  street  when  that  girl  was  lost 
— went  off  to  New  Orleans,  lost  all  her  property,  and  then 
was  lost  herself.  Camptown  still  lives.  I  saw  him  a  few 
days  ago,  in  the  very  street  where  that  girl  was  lost,  noticed 
in  the  "  Tribune."  Has  he  any  connection  with  her  loss  ? 
Reader,  there  is  a  girl  lost.  Ask  where  and  why  ?  Rum 
and  gambling  can  answer.  ^ 

Now,  let  us  leave  Agnes  in  the  hands  of  the  wood-sawyer 
and  his  wife,  those  good-hearted,  kind  Christians,  that 
despised,  because  black-skinned,  brother  and  sister,  rnoro 
worthy  than  many  of  the  despisers,  and  return  to  Mrs.  May, 
and  see  how  she  effected  the  rescue  of  another  prisoner. 

What  Stella  told  her  mother  was  sufficient'  to  give  her  the 
most  intense  anxiety  about  Athalia.  She  was  so  well  ac 
quainted  with  the  ways  of  the  wicked  in  this  city,  that  she 
felt  satisfied  that  her  friend  wanted  good  counsel,  and  perhaps 
assisfance,  and  she  determined  to  give  it  to  OKC  who  had  often 
given  such  to  her.  As  soon  as  it  was  sufficiently  dark,  she 
slipped  on  a  shawl  and  hood,  and  went  into  :\  neighbor's  and 
borrowed  another  just  like  her  own. 

"  What  in  the  world  do  you  want  of  it  ?"  said  the  woman. 


292  HOT     CORN. 

"  No  matter,  it  shall  come  safe  back  to  you,  in  the  course 
of  the  evening1." 

So  it  did,  and  with  it  came  Athalia,  who,  by  that  double, 
had  eluded  her  jailers. 

Lovetree  went  to  his  hotel  in  a  state  of  mind  not  to  be  en 
vied.  He  had  found  the  strongest  evidence  that  his  niece 
had  been  in  a  house  which  pollutes  all  who  breathe  its  atmos 
phere,  and  he  had  heard  vile  women  speak  of  her  as  one  of 
themselves,  and  he  knew  not  how  far  she  was  like  them.  He 
had  witnessed  an  exposition  of  character  that  night,  such  as 
he  never  had  before  conceived  possible.  He  first  saw  Mrs. 
Laylor,  a  specimen  of  a  high-bred  lady, 

Bland  as  the  dewy  morn 
That  opes  the  buds  to  flowers. 

Then  he  saw  her  furious  as  the  winds, 

By  Boreas  rudely  driven, 

Wild  as  the  storm,  when  Jove  hurls  down 

His  thunderbolts  from  Heaven. 

He  trembled  with  fear  that  she  would  pursue  Athalia,  and 
drag  her  back,  and  perhaps  hide  her  where  he  could  never 
find  her.  Undoubtedly  she  would  have  exercised  her  vindic- 
tiveness  upon  Athalia  in  some  way,  if  she  had  known  where  , 
she  was.  Lovetree  had  heard  Mrs.  Laylor  swear  that  Atha 
lia  had  robbed  her,  and  that  she  would  have  her  punished, 
and  although  he  did  not  believe  a  word  of  such  a  charge,  he 
believed  that  vile  woman  wicked  enough  to  swear  away  an 
innocent  girl's  life. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN    NEW    YORK.  293 

He  was  quite  mistaken.  She  was  furious  at  her  disappoint 
ment  and  loss  of  gain,  for  gold  she  worshipped,  but  after  all 
she  would  not  have  done  a  thing  to  put  the  life  or  liberty  of 
Athalia  in  danger  of  the  law*  The  restraint  she  had  put  upon 
her,  was  one  of  policy,  all  in  the  way  of  her  business.  Lying 
and  cheating  were  a  part  of  her  trade ;  it  is  of  some  others. 
She  had  been  outwitted  by  one  whom  she  thought  too  tame 
to  resent  an  injury,  or  protect  herself.  Lovetree  did  not  know 
that  like  a  furious  wind  it  would  soon  blow  out,  or  that  a  por 
tion  of  her  apparent  anger  was  put  on  for  effect,  for  one  of  the 
other  girls  was  held  by  a  slender  thread,  and  it  was  an 
object  to  deter  her  from  taking  the  same  step  that  Athalia 
had. 

It  is  a  great  object — great  as  it  is  with  the  merchant  to  get 
new  goods — with  all  this  class  of  houses  to  get  new  girls ; 
those  fresh  from  the  country  are  objects  of  great  importance  ; 
hence  the  effort  to  keep  them  until  their  conscience  is  oblitera 
ted  from  hearts  made  for  virtuous  actions,  and  then  they  stay 
willingly — often  have  to  beg  for  the  privilege  of  staying,  for 
"  old  goods  "  in  this  branch  of  trade  are  a  greater  drug  in  the 
market  of  seduction,  than  old  dry  goods  upon  the  merchant's 
shelves.  They  are  more  Kke  old  meat  upon  the  butcher's  stall ; 
nobody  wants  to  buy,  .iiough  all  may  admire  its  fatness,  and 
remark  how  good  it  had  been,  but  when  they  examine  closely, 
an  odor  cometh  up  to  the  nostrils,  which  giveth  offence  to  the 
stomach. 

Men  treat  all  these  poor  girls  as  children  treat  toys.  The 
fresh  and  beautiful  are  admired,  then  barely  tolerated,  then 


294  HOT     CORN. 

kicked  aside  to  make  room  for  a  fresli  set.  Hence  all  the  arts 
that  cunning  vile  women  know  of  are  used  to  obtain  new  toys 
for  their  customers. 

Lovetree  slept  but  little  that  night.  How  he  did  walk 
up  and  down  the  corridors  of  the  Astor  house  the  next 
morning,  watching  every  one  that  entered,  hoping  it  might  be 
the  little  pedler  girl.  She  was  at  home  and  asleep.  She  got 
home  before  her  mother  and  went  to  bed,  so  that  she  knew 
nothing  of  the  coming  of  Mrs.  Morgan.  All  slept  late,  and 
Stella's  mother  saw  her  daughter  sleeping  so  sweetly  that  she 
could  not  bear  to  wak«  her  for  her  daily  task  until  breakfast 
was  ready.  How  delighted  she  was  to  see  Mrs.  Morgan ! 
"  Oh,  mother,  mother,  let  me  go  and  tell  that  gentleman ;  I 
will  bring  him  right  here.  He  will  be  so  glad  to  see  Mrs 
Morgan." 

"  So  glad  to  see  me,  Stella,  who  is  it  that  knows  me  ?" 

"  He  don't  know  you  at  all.  But  when  I  told  him  about 
you,  he  and  that  other  gentleman  said  that  they  would  go 
right  off  to  Mrs.  Laylor's,  and  get  you  away." 

"  Why,  Stella,  my  daughter,  who  are  you  talking  about  ? 
We  do  not  understand  a  word  you  are  saying." 

"  Don't  you,  no,  you  do  not ;  I  had  forgotten  that  I  had  not 
toltl  you  about  those  two  nice  gentk-men  that  I  met  at  the 
Astor  house  last  night.  Oh,  mother,  where  did  you  get  those 
bouquets  ?  As  I  live  there  is  the  very  one  tliat  I  looked  at  and 
talked  about  with  Joseph  Butler,  last  night.  Did  you  bii) 
them,  mother  ?" 

"  No,  Tom  Top  brought  them  here  just  as  we  got  home,  and 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  295 

said  that  an  old  gray-headed  gentleman  bought  thorn  of  Jo 
seph,  and  gave  him  a  shilling  to  bring  them  here,  one  for  me, 
and  one  for  you." 

"  Oh,  my,  that  must  be  him,  who  else  could  it  be  ?  And 
then,  only  think  of  it,  his  name  is  just  like  Mrs.  Morgan's  be 
fore  she  was  married." 

"  What,  Lovetree  ?  Is  his  name  Lovetree  ?  How  remark 
able  it  would  be  if  he  should  turn  out  to  be  my  uncle  from  the 
West." 

"So  it  would.  -Now  I  think  of  it,  he  does  look  like  you. 
No,  no,  I  cannot  eat  now,  I  must  run  and  tell  him,  that  you 
are  here,  it  will  make  him  so  happy. 

So  it  did.  There  was  another  happy  person  that  day ;  ah, 
two  or  three  of  them,  for  Mrs.  May  and  Stella  were  almost  as 
happy  as  Athalia ;  when  he  came  they  saw  how  quickly  she 
recognized  him,  and  how  overjoyed  he  was  to  see  her,  and 
how  he  hugged  her  and  kissed  her,  and  then  he  took  Stella 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  told  her  that  she  should 
never  go  out  peddling  again  ;  that  he  would  set  her  mother  up 
in  a  little  shop,  and  Stella  should  be  her  clerk,  for  he  felt  that 
he  owed  all  that  he  now  enjoyed  to  her,  and  he  owed  her 
mother  a  great  debt  for  her  kind  intention  and  goodness  of 
heart,  in  getting  Athalia  away  from  that  house ;  and  then  he 
told  them  all  about  his  visit  to  Mrs.  Laylor's.  and  Mrs.  May 
told  all  about  how  she  worked  her  plan  to  get  Athalia  away  ; 
how  she  dressed  her  up  and  sent  her  down  first,  and  then  she 
watched  until  she  saw  the  other  girl  in  the  hall,  and  then 
went  down  herself.  Then  Stella  said,  she  must  run  and  see 


296  HOT     COR2T. 

Joseph,  she  wanted  Joseph  to  tell  that  other  gentleman ;  and 
so  she  did,  and  Joseph  told  "  the  other  gentleman,"  when  he 
came  by  and  stopped  to  give  the  poor  crippled  black  man  a 
kind  word,  which  always  lighted  up  a  pleasant  smile  upon 
his  fine  face  ;  and  in  the  evening  the  two  gentlemen,  and  the 
two  ladies,  and  the  dear  little  girl,  all  sat  down  in  Mrs.  May's 
little  parlor,  to  such  a  supper,  as,  perhaps,  never  had  been  set 
in  that  room  before.  This  was  one  of  Mr.  Lovetree's  whims. 
It  was  a  thanksgiving  supper,  he  said,  for  the  prodigal 
returned,  and  he  wanted  to  eat  it  there,  all  by  themselves ; 
and  so  he  went  out  and  ordered  the  'best  of  everything  that 
could  be  provided  sent  there,  and  then  as  happy  a  party  sat 
down  as  ever  enjoyed  a  supper  in  New  York.  Athalia  and 
her  uncle  had  "talked  all  day,  and  she  had  told  him  all  the 
secrets  of  her  life,  and  he  had  forgiven  her  everything,  and 
told  her  that  he  would  love  her  as  long  as  she  would  love 
him.  Then  he  asked  Stella  to  go  out  and  get  him  some 
writing  materials,  and  then  her  eyes  fairly  danced  with  joy 
as  she  ran  and  got  her  own  little  portfolio,  one  that  she  had 
made  hersen  out  of  some  colored  paper,  and  asked  him  if  he 
would  use  her  pen  and  paper.  He  did  so,  and  then  wrapped 
up  the  little  home-made  article  in  a  newspaper,  and  carried  it 
away  with  him,  without  saying  a  word.  Stella  thought  it 
very  queer  that  he  should  do  so,  and  she  almost  dropped  a 
tear  at  the  thought  of  losing  it,  for  it  had  cost  her  a  good 
many  hours  of  busy  work  to  make  it.  After  awhile  a  boy 
brought  it  back,  wrapped  in  the  same  paper,  but  as  it  had 
her -name  on  the  outeide,  she  thought  she  would  open  it,  to 


LIFE     SCENES,    IN     NEW    YORK.  29.7 

see  what  he  had  put  in  it ;  "  some  paper,  I  dare  say,  in  place 
of  that  which  he  had  used."  That  was  not  what  she  found  ; 
she  found  in  place  of  her  old  one,  the  most  beautiful  portfolio 
that  could  be  found  in  New  York,  filled  with  all  sorts  of  sta 
tionery  that  could  be  desired. 

After  supper  was  over,  of  course  Stella  had  to  get  her  port 
folio,  and  show  it,  and  talk  about  it ;  and  then  Mr.  Lovetree 
talked  about  what  he  had  written  with  Stella's  pen — it  was 
his  will. 

"  I  have  made,"  said  he,  "  Athalia  my  heir.  I  adopt  her  as 
my  daughter,  and  shall  always  treat  her  as  my  child.  I  hope 
she  will  always  feel  towards  me  as  she  would  if  I  were  her 
father  in  fact.  She  is  an  orphan,  and  she  is a  widow." 

"  A  widow — a  widow  ?" 

"Is  Walter  dead?" 

"  Is  'that  so,  uncle— father  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  so.  When  I  went  to  the  attorney  to  see  if  I 
had  got  my  will  all  right,  and  when  he  came  to  the  name  of 
Athalia  Morgan,  he  said,  'Oh,  that  is  Walter  Morgan's 
widow.'  Then,  I  said,  widow,  widow,  just  as  you  all  did  a 
minute  since.  And  he  told  me,  that  was  the  fact ;  and  a 
good  thing  it  was  that  he  was  dead,  for  he  got  to  be  a 
terrible  sot.  And  now,  Athalia  is  my  heir,  and  my  executor. 
When  I  am  dead  she  will  do  what  she  pleases  with  what  I 
leave,  and  get  married  again  if  she  likes ;  she  has  promised 
me  that  she  never  will  while  I  live.  There  is  one  little  clause 
in  my  will  that  I  will  read  now,  for  I  like  to  make  people 
happy,  and  I  am  going  to  make  a  mother  happy,  free  from 

13* 


298  HOT    CORN. 

anxiety  about  what  her  child  will  do  when  she  is  gone.  This 
is  the  clause,  *  To  the  owner  of  the  pen  with  which  I  wrote 
'.his  will,  I  bequeath  five  hundred  dollars/  " 

"Why,  what  is  there  in  that  to  cry  about?  Bless  my 
heart,  I  thought  I  was  going  to  make  you  all  happy,  and 
here  you  are  all  shedding  tears." 

"  Oh,  uncle,  uncle,  you  have  made  us  happy.  These  are 
tears  of  joy  and  gladness.  How  noble,  how  generous,  how 
good  !" 

"Just  like  him,"  said  the  other  gentleman. 

"  This  to  me !  Oh,  Mr.  Lovetree,  this  to  the  poor  widow  1 
This  to  my  daughter !" 

"  To  me,  mother,  to  me  ?  Does  it  mean  me  ?  Yes !  Oh, 
mother,  may  I  kiss  him  ?" 

Before  anybody  could  say  no,  if  they  had  been  disposed  to, 
Stella  was  in  his  arms,  and  who  shall  say,  that  to  one  of  his 
wealth,  that  moment  was  not  cheaply  purchased  for  five  hun 
dred  dollars.  Happiness  is  contagious.  Those  who  feel  it,  feel 
as  though  they  would  like  to  make  everybody  else  feel  just  so. 
Stella  did,  for  she  reached  out  one  hand  and  drew  her  mother 
to  the  same  enfolding  arms,  and  then  Athalia  enfolded  them  all, 
until  it  seemed  to  my  dim-growing  eyes  that  four  exceedingly 
happy  people  were  blending  all  in  one.  Feeling  how  useless 
is  a  fifth  wheel  to  a  vehicle  already  having  four,  and  feeling 
too  a  sort  of  choking  sensation,  as  though  the  air  of  the  street 
would  be  beneficial,  while  this  scene  was  on,  I  went  off. 

When  I  had  breathed  the  fresh  air  long  enough  to  recover 
my  equilibrium  of  thoughts,  one  came  into  my  mind  that  I 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW   YORK.  299 

might  do  something  to  increase  the  happiness  of  the  full  hearts 
I  had  just  left.  With  this  new  idea  in  my  mind  I  took  my 
way  directly  to  Mrs.  Laylor's.  Of  course  I  found  the  storm 
had  passed.  A  May  morning  could  not  be  more  calm  and 
pleasant.  Of  course  I  was  a  welcome  visitor.  I  had  ordered 
a  bottle  of  wine  the  night  before,  that  paid  my  footing.  I  had 
spent  money  for  one  sin,  and  apparently  seemed  willing  to 
spend  more  for  another,  and  that  always  mates  welcome  guests, 
because  profit  can  be  made  out  of  such  visitors.  I  had  an 
object  in  my  course  the  night  before ;  I  had  nothing  of  that 
kind  to  accomplish  to-night,  and  so  I  ordered  no  wine.  I  looked 
serious,  earnest,  determined,  and  asked  Mrs.  Laylor  for  a 
private  interview.  It  is  not  necessary  to  inflict  the  particulars 
upon  my  readers ;  it  will  be  only  interesting  to  them  to  know 
that  one  of  the  results  of  the  talk  did.  add  to  the  happiness  of 
those  whom  I  had  just  left  already  very  happy,  for  just  as 
Lovetree"  was  in  the  act  of  kissing  good-night  to  Athalia,  there 
came  a  rap  to  the  door,  it  was  a  porter's  rap  ;  his  load  was  a 
trunk,  a  bandbox  and  a  square  bundle.  The  bundle  was  opened 
first,  its  contents  were  now  doubly  dear,  and  Athalia  longed  to 
show  it  to  her  uncle.  It  was  the  old  family  Bible.  Everything 
had  been  sent  but  the  watch.  That  was  irrecoverably  lost. 

As  I  was  leaving  Mrs.  Laylor's,  with  the  porter  and  Athalia's 
trunk,  I  met  Frank  Barkley  and  had  five  minutes  talk  with  him, 
As  we  parted,  he  said  :  "Depend  upon  it  I  shall  claim  my  bet, 
and  the  stake  is  in  the  hands  of  a  friend  who  will  fork  over." 

The  next  morning  Athalia  met  with  another  surprise.  The 
three  had  just  finished  breakfast,  and  sat  talking  over  the 


300  riOT   COKN. 


strange  events  of  the  last  day  or  two,  congratulating  each 
other  upon  their  singular  good  fortune,  and  laying  out  plans 
for  the  day,  while  awaiting  the  momentarily  expected  arrival 
of  Mr.  Lovetree.  Mrs.  May  and  Stella  were  to  go  out  and 
look  up  a  place  for  the  "  little  shop,"  which  was  to  hold  an 
assortment  of  just  such  goods  as  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
sell  out  of  her  basket,  to  which  her  mother  was  to  add  her  nice 
shirt  collars,  and  perhaps  the  work  of  some  other  poor  woman 
who  might  be  in  need  of  assistance  ;  and  Athalia  and  her  uncle 
were  to  go  "  house  hunting,"  a  very  common  employment  in 
New  York,  for  he  was  going  to  set  her  up  in  a  business  that  she 
could  live  by,  and  have  a  house  for  herself  and  him  too,  when 
he  was  in  the  city,  and  pretty  soon  he  hoped  that  would  be  all 
the  time  ;  it  should  be  as  soon  as  he  could  get  his  Western 
business  settled  up  ;  but  she  should  have  a  house  and  take  a 
few  boarders,  and  always  keep  a  room  for  him,  and  he  would  < 
always  call  that  home  ;  "  and  we  shall  be  so  happy,"  says  she, 
"  and  if  he  is  sick  I  will  take  care  of  him,  and  if  I  am  sick  I 
know  he  will  be  kind  to  me,  he  looks  just  as  though  he 
would  ;  don't  you  think  so,  Mrs.  May  ?" 

"  Indeed  he  does  ;  and  you  will  be  so  happy,  but  I  do  not 
know  as  you  will  be  quite  so  happy  as  Stella  and  I  shall  be, 
when  we  get  a-going.  I  am  happy  now,  only  one  thing 
troubles  me  a  little,  I  do  not  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  for 
a  little  money  for  present  necessities.  I  had  just  paid  my 
month's  rent,  ten  dollars  in  advance,  and  bought  a  piece  of 
linen  for  my  work,  and  Stella  had  laid  out  all  of  her  little 
stock,  and  now  we  are  quite  out.  If  you  had  money  as  you 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  301 

once  had,  I  should  know  very  well  nrhat  to  do.  I  should  ask 
you  for  a  loan  of  five  dollars,  and  I  know  very  well  what  you 
would  say ;  no,  you  would  not  say  anything,  you  would  jump 
up  and  run  to  the  little  drawer,  the  left-hand  top  drawer  of 
the  bureau,  I  can  almost  see  it  now,  and  then  you  would  say, 
*  there,  there  it  is,  go  along,  I  don't  want  you  to  stop  to  thank 
me.'  But  that  time  has  past  away.  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to 
do  what  we  poor  folks  often  have  to  do,  go  to  the  pawnbroker 
again." 

"  Your  trouble,  Mrs.  May,  is  just  mine  too ;  I  want  a  few 
dollars  so  bad  that  I  do  not  know  what  to  do,  and  I  was  about 
to  ask  you  ;  I  do  not  like  to  ask  my  uncle,  so  soon,  and  would 
not  on  my  own  account,  but  will  on  yours." 

"  No,  no,  no,  do  not,  I  can  get  along  very  well,  I  can  pawn 
the  linen,  I  shall  not  want  that  for  a  few  days." 

"  Yes,  I  will,  do  not  say  anything  more,  I  have  made  up  my 
mind,  and  here  he  comes,  so  it  is  too  late  for  argument." 

There  was  a  rap,  and  as  they  did  not  expect  anybody  else, 
of  course  it  must  be  her  uncle;  who  else  should  it  be?  but  it 
was  not.  It  was  the  same  porter  who  was  there  last  evening. 
He  did  not  bring  any  trunk  or  bundle,  he  simply  brought  a 
letter  and  a  very  small  package ;  a  letter  addressed,  "  Lucy 
Smith." 

Athalia  was  on  the  point  of  denying  it,  but  then  she  thought 
that  Mrs.  May  and  Stella  both  knew  that  was  the  name  she 
was  known  by  at  Mrs.  Laylor's.  Still  she  blushed  and  trem 
bled.  She  blushed  to  think  that  she  had  once  said  of  her  first 
name,  "I  never  shall  change  that."  It  is  a  sad  thing  for  a 


302  HOT    CORN. 

girl  to  change  that.  She  trembled  at  the  thought  of  having 
any  of  her  old  acquaintances,  who  knew  her  by  that  name, 
write  to  her  or  speak  to  her  as  friends,  for  they  were  only  friends 
of  days  which  she  would  gladly  blot  out  of  memory — days  of  sin 
and  shame,  which  she  looked  back  upon  with  horror,  as  she  felt 
their  deep  degradation.  She  trembled  still  more  when  she 
opened  the  letter,  and  saw  that  the  signature  was  Frank  Bark- 
ley.  She  felt  faint,  and  her  eyes  grew  dim,  for  she  felt  that  she 
was  still  pursued — *•  the  guilty  flee  when  no  man  pursueth" — 
by  one  with  whom  she  had  sinned,  and  she  felt  that  it  was  a 
renewal  of  the  proposition  to  sin  again.  She  saw  the  name, 
and  the  "  Dear  Lucy  "  with  which  it  commenced,  she  saw  no 
more,  she  could  see  no  more,  and  so  she  handed  the  letter 
to  Mrs.  May,  with  an  "  oh,  dear !" 

Mrs.  May  read  it,  and  then  she  said,  "  Oh,  dear,"  but  it  was 
a  very  different  "  Oh,  dear,"  from  Athalia's.  It  was  an  "  Oh, 
dear,  what  a  fortune,"  and  theti  she  handed  the  letter  back  to 
Athalia,  and  said,  "  read,  you  will  not  find  it  very  bad."  Her 
joyous  smile  reassured  the  fainting,  trembling  Athalia,  and  she 
read : 

"Mr  DEAR  LUCY. 

"  Dearer  to  me  now  than  ever.  I  have  heard  from  a  mutual 
friend  all  about  it.  First,  forgive  me  for  the  wrong  I  have  done  you.  I 
shall  not  do  it  again.  Blush  not  to  meet  me  in  the  street  or  church,  for 
by  no  look  or  word  will  I  ever  seek  to  renew  our  acquaintance.  I  know 
you  now,  I  never  did  before,  and  I  feel  that  I  am  not  worthy  to  renew 
that  acquaintance.  I  am  a  man  of  the  world,  and  enjoy  what  my  own 
class  call  pleasures.  -I  have  enjoyed  pleasant  hours  with  you,  but  I 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  303 

never  enjoyed  a  night  as  I  have  the  last.  I  have  been  alone  in  my  room 
all  night.  I  have  been  thinking.  I  have  thought  how  much  myself  and 
my  associates  have  done  to  swell  the  class  of  females  whom  we  look  upon 
with  contempt,  as  they  p%^.s  us  in  the  street.  I  have  found  that  it  is 
good  to  think.  I  have  thought  a  great  deal  of  you,  and  of  your  history, 
as  I  gleaned  it  partly  from  you  and  partly  from  Mrs.  Laylor,  but  the  last 
and  best  part  from  your  friend.  Believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  am  most 
sincerely  glad  that  you  have  escaped  from  a  life  which  I  had  persuaded 
you  to  adopt.  I  was  selfish  then.  I  am  sober  now. 

"  Of  course  you  know  I  have  won  my  bet.  I  have  got  the  money.  I 
do  not  need  it,  you  do.  It  is  your  due  and  much  more  from  that  ava 
ricious  woman  who  deceived  you  so  bitterly.  You  lost  your  watch.  It 
was  partly  my  fault.  If  I  had  not  believed  the  lies  told  of  you,  it  would 
not  have  happened,  for  then  in  a  spirit  of  retaliation,  I  had  not  been  false 
to  you,  nor  you  to  me,  and  you  would  not  have  made  the  acquaintance 
of  the  gambler  who  stole  your  watch.  I  cannot  return  that,  but  I  send 
one  in  its  place.  I  also  send  you  my  check  for  the  money  won,  and  the 
earne  sum  which  was  staked  against  it.  If  you  are  ever  in  need  here 
after  remember  your  real,  truly  sincere  friend, 

"  FRANK  BARKLEY." 

She  looked  up  with  tearful  eyes,  and  simply  said,  "  Mrs.  May, 
you  will  not  have  to  go  to  the  pawnbroker's  to-day.  Take 
this  check  and  go  to  the  bank,  or  I  will  write  a  note  to  a  friend 
who  will  cash  it  in  a  minute,  it  needs  no  endorsement,  it  is 
payable  to  the  bearer,  and  you  shall  have  one  hundred  and  I 
the  other.  Now  let  us  look  at  the  watch."  They  did  look 
at  it,  and  of  course  admire  it,  and  then  Mr.  Lovetree  came  in, 
and  then  the  letter  was  read  again,  and  then  he  said,  "  the 
fellow  has  got  a  heart  after  all,  it  has  only  been  spoiled  by 
bad  associations ;  he  has  got  a  good  start  now  in  the  right 


304  HOT     CORN. 

path,  and  I  shall  make  it  my  business  to  look  him  up  and  help 
him  along.  Do  you  know,  Athalia,  where  he  lives  ?" 

"  I  have  his  card,  sir,  in  my  trunk." 

"  Very  well,  give  it  to  me  at  your  leisure,  and  we  will  let 
him  know  that  the  pearls  of  that  letter  have  not  been  cast 
before  the  very  worst  sort  of  pigs." 

Then  Stella  was  going  out  to  get  the  check  changed,  and 
then  he  said,  "  Never  mind,  give  it  to  me,"  and  then  he  put 
it  in  his  pocket-book  very  carefully,  and  put  that  away  in  his 
left-hand  pocket — he  had  a  place  for  everything  ;  and  then  he 
put  his  hand  into  his  right-hand  pocket,  and  took  out  fifty 
dollars  in  gold,  and  handed  that  to  Athalia.  with  the  remark 
that  he  would  bring  her  the  balance  to-morrow,  that  that  was 
as  much  as  she  would  want  to-day ;  and  then  he  said,  as  he 
saw  her  slipping  it  slyly  into  Mrs.  May's  hand,  "  Oh,  that  is 
it.  is  it  ?"  and  then  Mrs.  May  said,  she  must  tell,  and  then  she 
did  tell  all  about  her  want  of  money,  and  how  she  used  to  go 
to  Athalia  when  she  was  in  want,  and  now,  when  neither  of 
them  had  any,  it  did  seem  as  though  the  good  spirit  had 
opened  the  heart  of  that  man  to  repentance  and  good  works, 
just  when  it  was  most  needed." 

And  then  they  all  went  out,  Mrs.  May  and  Stella  to  hunt 
for  the  shop,  which  they  found  and  had  in  operation  in  a 
week,  and  which  was  the  foundation  of  a  fortune,  for  it  pros 
pered  wonderfully.  The  ball  only  needed  a  start,  it  would 
accumulate  at  every  roll.  It  is  accumulating  still.  I  wish  a 
few  more  benevolent  old  gentlemen  would  take  each  one  of 
them  a  IKtle  girl  out  of  the  street,  and  set  the  ball  to  rolling. 


LIFE    SCENES    IN     NEW    YORK.  306 

Good  bye,  Mrs.  May — good  bye,  Stella.  We  may  never 
meet  again,  but  we  never  shall  forget  you,  good-hearted  little 
girl,  and  kind,  blessed,  good  mother.  Thy  good  works  have 
their  reward. 

Athalia  and  her  uncle  found  a  house.  We  have  heard  of 
that  before,  from  Maggie ;  we  shall  hear  of  them  again,  in 
some  of  these  shifting  "  Scenes." 

I  shall  draw  the  curtain  now.  It  may  remain  down  for  one 
or  two  or  more  years,  what  does  it  matter  to  the  reader  ?  It 
is  facts  that  he  wants,  he  cares  nothing  for  time,  or  which 
scene  comes  first.  If  the  reader  is  a  woman,  she  cares 
neither  for  time  nor  facts,  so  that  the  story  is  good. 

What  next? 

Look  in  the  next  chapter 


.306  -  HOT     CORN. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

NEW    SCENES    AND    NEW    CHARACTERS. 

"  There  is  some  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil, 
Would  man_observingly  distil  it  out." 

THAT  was  well  exemplified  in  the  last  chapter.  It  may  be 
m  this.  If  any  of  the  readers  of  these  "  Scenes  "  suppose  the 
writer  lost  sight  of  the  chance  to  do  good,  and  the  right  time 
to  do  it,  that  the  death  of  "  Little  Katy,"  offered,  they  are 
quite  mistaken.  Although  he  may  not  be  aDie  to  do  with  his 
own  purse,  he  has  a  way  of  procuring  others  to  do  a  part 
that  is  so  much  needed  to  be  done.  He  found  that  Katy  had 
an  aunt  in  the  city,  who  was  able  to  do  for  her  sister,  and  he 
took  the  preliminary  steps  to  restore  the  poor,  lost  sheep  to  the 
fold  from  which  she  had  strayed.  That  he  should  have  lost 
sight  of  her  for  a  little  while,  in  the  busy  whirl  of  city  life,  is 
not  surprising.  That  the  reader  has  been  left  in  suspense, 
while  he  has  had  many  other  scenes  before  him,  the  author 
hopes  he  will  not  regret.  We  do  not  travel  old,  beaten  paths, 
in  this  volume. 

As  the  subject  is  new,  so  is  the  way  of  illustrating  it. 
Now,  let  us  walk  on. 

"  There  has  been  a  black  woman  here  twice  this  evening 
after  you,  and  she  says,  she  must  have  the  sight  of  ye  afore 
Bhe  sleeps,  any  Low." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  307 

This  was  a  piece  of  Irish  information,  which  "met  me  as  I 
opened  the  door,  one  night,  in  rather  a  melancholy  mood,  for 
I  was  as  yet  supperless,  tired,  sleepy,  and  about  half  sick, 
from  breathing  fetid  air  four  or  five  hours,  while  visiting  the 
poorest  of  the  city  poor,  the  denizens  of  Cow  Bay. 

Norr,  it  must  not  be  understood  that  Mrs.  McTravers 
intended  to  tell  me  that  the  Ethiopian  female,  who  had  twice 
called  at  my  abode,  and  declared  that  "  she  must  have  the 
sight  of  rue  before  she  slept,"  had  the  least  desire  to  gouge 
out  rny  eyes.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  only  anxious  to  have 
a  sight  of  the  ugly  visage  I  own,  and  come  within  speaking 
distance  of  me. 

"  What  for  ?     What  did  she  want,  Mrs.  McTravers  ?" 

"  Sure,  your  honor,  it's  not  the  likes  of  me  knows  what  a 
lady  wants  with  a  lone  gentleman  at  this  time  o'night." 

If  I  did  not  swear,  I  had  some  very  hard  thoughts  at  the 
blundering  awkwardness  of  this  woman,  or  her  entire  ina 
bility  to  convey  ideas  by  language,  so  that  I  could  understand 
them  "  at  this  time  of  night." 

She  proceeded  to  give  a  most  minute  description  of  "  the 
black  woman,"  how  she  looked,  and  talked,  and  dressed. 

Who  could  it  be?  I  run  over  in  my  mind  all  of  my  Afri 
can  female  acquaintances — not  large — but  not  one  of  them 
answered  the  description  given  by  Mrs.  McTravers. 

I  was  about  proceeding  up  stairs,  when  she  said,  "ye'll 
surely  go  and  see  the  sick  lady."  I  had  a  slight  internal 
intimation  that  I  was  nearly  losing  my  patience. 

"  Mrs.  McTravers,  what  is  it  about  a  sick  lady  ?     You  have 


308  HOT     CORN. 

*r 

not  told  me  a  word  about  anybody,  sick  or  well,  except  a  ne 
gro  woman,  and  you  have  not  told  me  what  she  wanted." 

"And  sure,  then,  I  thought  you  knew  all  about  it.  The 
wench  said  you  knew  the  lady." 

"  I  know  a  good  many,  but  how  can  I  tell  which  one  of 
my  acquaintances  this  may  be  ?" 

"  Why  sure,  then.  I  thought  you  would  know  when  I  told 
you  where  she  lived." 

"In  the  name  of  common  sense,  Mrs.  McTravers,  if  you 
know  who  the  sick  woman  is,  or  ^vhere  she  lives,  or  what  she 
wants,  why  don't  you  tell  me  ?" 

"  Wasn't  I  going  to,  only  you  put  me  into  such  a  flustera- 
tion  ?  There,  sure,  that'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

And  she  handed  me  a  piece  of  paper,  on  which  was  written, 
in  a  very  delicate  lady  hand,  though  evidently  nervous, 
"Madame  De  Vrai,  53  W—  street." 

I  am  sure  I  must  have  looked  like  a  living  specimen  of  con 
fusion  worse  confounded.  The  name  I  had  never  heard  be 
fore.  The  street  was  an  unknown  locality.  I  only  knew  it  was 
a  street  on  the  west  side  of  the  city,  somewhere,  and  whether 
it  had  such  a  number  as  "  53,"  was  entirely  too  much  for  my 
arithmetic.  I  determined  not  to  go.  Still  there  was  a  mys 
tery,  that  natural  curiosity  prompted  me  to  solve.  Who  could 
it  be  ?  "  Did  the  black  woman  say  that  I  was  acquainted  with 
the  lady?" 

"  She  did  that,  and  that  you  had  been  very  kind  to  her. 
God  bless  you  for  that  same,  for  being  so  to  a  stranger  and  a 
foreigner  too  at  that.  The  black  woman  said  you  was  a  bless- 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  309 

cd  good  man  to  the  poor  lady,  and  a  father  to  her  childer, 
dead  and  alive." 

Was  anything  ever  so  provoking  as  the  stolidity  of  an  Irish 
servant.  Every  word  she  uttered  made  the  mystery  still  dark 
er.  I  knew  no  Madame  De  Vrai ;  never  heard  of  the  name 
before  in  my  life — took  no  credit  to  myself  for  any  special 
act  of  kindness  to  the  poor  in  general,  and  certainly  could 
not  call  to  mind  any  act  of  my  life  that  would  warrant  me 
in  appropriating  the  blessing  so  heartily  offered  for  my  accept 
ance.  As  to  being  the  father  of  the  poor  woman's  "  childer, 
dead  and  alive,"  I  declared  emphatically  that  it  was  just  no 
such  thing.  I  would  not  own  them.  So  I  called  for  some 
thing  to  eat,  and  determined  to  go  to  bed,. fully  satisfied  that 
African  blunders  and  Irish  ditto,  duly  mixed,  had  made  one 
this  time  too  large  for  my  mastery,  either  with  my  very 
common  name,  or  by  a  mistake  in  the  street  or  number ;  or 
else  somebody  else  had  undertaken  to  father  this  family,  and 
now  desired  to  shift  the  responsibility ;  certainly  I  had  not, 
could  not,  would  not  father  them.  So  I  sat  munching  and 
musing  over  my  bread  and  butter  and  cold  water,  of  the  scenes 
of  the  evening  which  I  had  witnessed. 

"  Would  to  Heaven  I  knew  what  had  become  of  her,"  I 
thought  aloud. 

"  Who  ?"  said  a  kind  voice  at  my  elbow.  "  What  lady  are 
you  so  anxions  about  now.  Any  of  your  Five  Point  proteges  ?" 

"  Yes.     You  have  guessed  it  exactly.     None  other." 

"  Is  that  what  you  have  been  looking  for  to-night.  Do  tell 
me  of  your  visit.  What  have  you  seen  ?" 


310  Hor    CORN. 

"  More  of  human  misery  than  I  ever  saw  before  iu  one  night, 
Would  you  like  to  hear  the  detail  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  may  do  me  good  to  hear  how  others  live,  and  if 
worse  th~~  i  do,  it  may  make  me  more  contented  with  my 
own  Iv/t." 

"  Worse  than  you  do  ?  "Why,  madam,  have  you  not  all 
that  is  necessary  to  make  life  comfortable  around  you.  A 
neat,  airy,  well-furnished  house,  plenty  o<"  room,  plenty  to  eat, 
good  bed  to  sleep  on,  good  baths  for  evening  ablution  or 
morning  renovation,  and  above  all  the  other  luxuries  of  city 
life,  plenty  of  that  greatest  of  New  York's  blessings,  the  Cro- 
ton  water  ?  Now  listen  how  and  where  others  live.  In  a 
close,  dirty,  pent  up  court,  are  piles  of  old  bricks  and  frame 
houses,  perfect  rat  harbors,  filled  with  human  beings,  men, 
women,  children,  from  cellar  bottom  to  garret  peak,  poor  be 
yond  the  power  of  imagination,  dirty  to  a  degree  that  is  sick 
ening  to  behold,  criminal  through  necessity " 

"  No,  not  necessity.  Nobody  is  necessitated  to  be  crim 
inal." 

"  You  are  simply  mistaken.  I  repeat,  criminal  by  necessi 
ty.  So  Educated  from  childhood,  that  they  know  of  no  way 
to  live,  but  by  the  beggar's  trade,  or  pilferer's,  or  prostitute's 
crime.  Such  are  the  parents,  such  must  be  the  children. 
There  is  no  hope  otherwise.  They  are  sent  out  in  infancy  to 
beg,  and  early  taught  to  "pick  up  things ;"  the  place  of  edu 
cation  is  the  street,  the  watch  house,  or  city  prison." 

"  Why  don't  their  parents  send  them  to  school  ?" 

**  Why  should  they  ?     They  never  went  to  such  a  placa 


LIFE     SCENES     IN.    NEW    YOKE.  311 

themselves,  and  care  not  that  their  children  should  go.  They 
care  for  nothing  but  rum,  and  that  the  builders  of  prisons, 
and  hangers  of  murderers,  take  care  they  shall  have  the 
means  of  getting.  The  imprisonment  and  hanging,  ii  ^he 
sequence  of  the  license  system." 

"  But  you  were  to  tell  us  what  you  saw  this  evening." 

"Human  misery.  The  houses  of  the  city  poor.  The 
locality  is  Cow  Bay.  It  opens  upon  Anthony  street  at  the 
North  West  angle  of  the  Five  Points." 

The  first  home  we  entered  was  a  cellar  room,  twelve  by 
twenty  feet,  quite  below  the  surface,  and  only  just  high 
enough  to  stand  up  under  tne  oeams  of  the  floor  over  head, 
while  at  every  step  the  water  oozed  up  through  the  boards 
we  trod  upon.  At  one  end  was  the  narrow,  muddy  stairway 
and  door,  by  which  we  entered,  and  at  the  other  a  fire-place. 

On  one  side  two  windows  with  places  for  three  panes  of 
glass  to  each,  gave  all  the  light  and  ventilation  afforded  to 
the  four  families  who  occupied  the  room.  These  consisted  of 
two  men  and  their  wives,  two  single  women,  an  old  woman 
and  her  three  boys,  and  a  young  girl  as  a  boarder.  There 
were  four  sleeping  places,  called  beds,  upon  forms,  elevated 
above  the  floor,  for  none  cou!d  sleep  on  that  on  account  of 
the  water. 

"  Do  you  always  have  the  water  as  bad  as  it  is  now  ?"  I 
inquired. 

"Bad  is  it?  An  I  wish  then  you  could  see  it  after  a  big 
rain,  when  the  water  is  over  the  floor  entirely  foment  the 
the  door." 


3  J  2  HOT     CORN. 

% 

"  Have  these  women  husbands  ?" 

"  These  two  with  the  young  children  have." 

"  What  do  they  do  for  a  living?" 

•"'  One  of  them  jobs  about — but  he  is  on  the  Island  now." 

"What  for?" 

"  Just  nothing  at  all,  yer  honor,  he  is  as  kind  a  husband  as 
ever  lived,  only  when  he  takes  a  drop  too  much  once  in  a 
while." 

"  Hould  your  tongue  now,  Ellen  Maguire,  you  know  your 
husband  is  drunk  every  time  he  can  get  liquor,  and  that  is  as 
often  as  he  can  coax  anybody  that  has  got  money  into  that 
dirty  hole  at  the  corner — Gale  Jones's  grocery.  He  is  a  burner, 
sir?" 

"  A  burner.     What  is  that  ?" 

"  He  asks  some  one  to  go  and  take  a  drink  with  him, 
and  then  tells  him  to  call  for  what  he  likes,  and  so  he  drinks 
and  drinks,  thinking  all  the  time  it  is  a  treat,  till  he  gets 
ready  to  go,  and  then  the  fellow  who  keeps  the  shop  stops  him 
and  makes  him  pay  for  all  the  liquor  the  company  have 
drank." 

"  Don't  he  refuse  ?" 

"  What's  the  use  ?  He  is  burnt,  and  must  stand  it.  If  he 
refuse,  they  will  take  his  coat,  or  hat,  or  shoes.  If  he  gets 
off  with  his  breeches  on  he  is  lucky." 

"What  does  tmV  woman's  husband  do  to  support  his 
family  ?" 

"  Deil  a  bit  can  I  tell.  It  is  not  for  me  to  pry  into  peoples' 
business  who  pay  the  rint  like  honest  folks." 


OLD    PLATO    COOKING    HOT    CORN. Page    321. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  313 

"  The  rent.  How  much  rent  do  you  pay  for  this 
room  r 

"  Fifty  cents  a  week  for  each  of  us- — that  is  two  dollars  in 
all,  every  Monday  morning  in  advance ;  sure,  you  may  well 
believe  that,  if  you  know  Billy  Crown,  the  agent.  It's  never 
a  poor  woman  that  he  lets  slip ;  if  she  was  dying,  and  never 
a  mouthful  of  bread  or  drop  of  anything  in  the  house,  the. 
rint  must  be  paid." 

"  Well,  these  women  what  do  they  do  ?" 
"  What  should  a  lone  woman  do  ?  she  must  live.     There  is 
but  one  way." 

"  Have  you  a  husband  ?" 

"The  Lord  be  thanked,  no.  It  is  enough  for  me  to  live 
with  me  boys.  What  would  I  do  if  I  had  a  drunken  husband  = 
to  support  out  of  me  arnings  ?" 

Sure  enough.  What  should  any  woman  want  of  a  drunken 
husband?  Let  us  look  above  ground.  Perchance  misery 
only  dwells  in  dark,  low,  damp  cellars.  Up,  then,  to  the  very 
garret  of  the  same  house.  It  is  divided  into  three  rooms,  one 
is  ten  feet  square  with  one  window,  without  fire-place  or  stove. 
What  may  be  inside  we  know  not,  for  a  strong  hasp  and  pad-, 
lock  guard  the  treasure.  Back  of  this,  through  a  two  feet  wide 
passage,  is  another  room,  eight  feet  by  twelve.  This  is  partly 
under  the  roof,  has  a  dilapidated  fire-place  and  broken  window. 
This  is  inhabited  by  a  black  man  and  his  wife.  There  is  a 
bed,  a  table,  dishes  and  two  chairs,  and  an  air  of  neatness, 
contrasting  strongly  with  the  cellar. 

By  the  side  of  this  ig  another  room  inhabited  by  a  negro 
14 


314  HOT     COUN. 

and  his  white  wife,  and  a  white  man  and  wife.  Did  you  ever 
see  four  uglier  beasts  in  one  cage  ?  The  white  man  is  a  hyena ; 
his  wife  a  tiger ;  the  negro  a  hippopotamus  ;  his  wife  a  sort 
of  human  tortoise ;  the  dirt,  representing  the  shell,  out  of 
which  the  vicious  head  poked  itself,  glaring  at  the  intruders 
upon  her  premises,  with  a  look  that  plainly  said,  Oh,  how  I 
should  like  to  bite  and  claw  you,  and  strip  off  those  clean 
clothes,  and  spoil  that  face,  and  put  out  those  eyes,  and  make 
ye  as  dirty  and  ugly  and  miserable  as  I  am.  The  black  man 
was  social,  courteous  and  intelligent.  He  was  a  cobbler,  and 
diligently  plied  his  hammer  and  awl.  With  a  kind  master 
and  well  cared  for,  he  would  be  a  faithful,  good  servant.  He 
has  no  faculty  to  take  care  of  himself.  By  nature  the  slave 
of  one  of  nature's  strongest  passions,  he  has  sunk  down  into 
slavery  to  this  hard-shell  woman,  and  the  tool  of  his  designing 
hyena  and  tiger  room-mates.  The  white  man  looked  as  if  he 
were  counting  the  contents  of  our  pockets,  and  what  chance 
there  would  be  for  a  grab  at  our  watches. 

The  shape  of  this  room  was  peculiar.  Take  a  large  water 
melon,  cut  it  in  quarters,  cut  one  of  those  across — the  flesh 
sides  will  represent  the  floor  and  one  wall — the  cross-cut  the 
end,  where  there  is  a  fire-place — the  rind  is  the-  roof  and  other 
side  of  the  room,  through  which  at  the  butt  end,  there  is  a 
window.  There  is  no  bedstead,  or  place  for  one.  There  is  no 
table,  or  occasion  for  any.  Two  boxes  and  a  stool  serve  for 
chairs.  The  bedding  is  very  scarce,  but  the  floor  is  of  soft 
wood,  and  the  weather  is  warm.  Each  of  these  rooms  rents 
for  three  dollars  a  month,  always  in  advance. 


LIFE    SCENES    IN    NEW    YORK.  315 

Now  let  us  go  down  th?  rotten  stairway  to  the  next  floor. 
Though  what  we  have  seen  is  bad,  we  may  yet  say : 

"  The  worst  is  not 
So  long  as  we  can  say,  '  this  is  the  worst.'  " 

What  have  we  here  ? 

Something  worse.  Yes,  for  coupled  with  poverty  and 
crime,  is  fanatical  hatred  of  everything  that  is  not  worse 
than  itself.  Let  us  rap  at  this  door.  A  gruff  woman's 
voice  bids  us  enter.  We  are  met  by  an  insolent  defiant  scowl 
and  an  angry  "  what  do  you  want  here  ?" 

"  Good  woman,  is  some  one  sick  here  ?" 

"Yes.  What  of  that.  Nobody  wants  the  like  of  you, 
with  your  pious  faces  and  'good  woman,'  prowling  about  at 
this  time  of  night.  You're  after  nothing  good,  any  one 
might  swear  that." 

"Perhaps  we  can  give  you  some  good  advice  for  your  sick 
child." 

"  Give  your  advice  when  we  ask  it.  Haven't  we  got 
Father  Mullany  to  give  us  advice,  and  he  a  good  doctor  too. 
J  tell  you  we  don't  want  any  miserable  heretics  in  the 
house  and  me  child  a  dying.  And  who  have  I  to  thank  for 
it?" 

"  Surely,  madam,  we  cannot  tell.  Perhaps  you  can,  or  your 
husband,  where  is  he  ?" 

If  a  dog  were  thrown  among  the  whelps  in  a  wolfs  lair,  it 
would  not  arouse  the  dam  quicker  than  these  words  did  this 


316  HOT     CORN. 

human  she-wolf.  She  sprang  towards  us,  foaming  with  rage. 
A  stout  cane  in  my  strong  right  hand  caught  her  eye,  and  she 
stood  at  bay. 

"  What  was  she  so  mad  at  you  and  your  companion  for  ? 
Did  she  know  either  of  you  ?"* 

"  She  knew  us  by  sight,  or  rather  she  knew  him  as  one  of 
the  active  helpers  of  the  Missionary,  Mr.  Pease,  the  House  of 
Industry,  and  the  Five  Points  Mission.  What  more  should 
she  know  to  hate  us  ?  She  knew  we  were  not  of  her  faith ; 
that  we  believed  not  in  the  efficacy  of  holy  water  and  con 
fession,  to  work  out  sin  ;  that  we  did  not  kneel  and  receive 
a  consecrated  wafer  with  '  extreme  unction',  and  so  she  hated 
us  with  all  the  fervent  rancor  of  religious  hate.  She  hated 
us  for  our  mission  of  good  ;  for  she  knew  we  hated  what  she 
dearly  loved — drunkenness  and  all  its  concomitant  evils.  She 
hated  us  with  that  envious  hate  of  depravity,  which  would 
sink  everything  to  its  own  level.  She  knew  that  we  would 
take  her  dying  child  to  a  clean  bed  and  airy  room,  vand  give 
it  food  and  medicine,  and  nurse  it  into  life,  and  she  hated  us 
for  that." 

"  How  could  she  ?  How  could  a  mother  be  so  wicked  to 
her  poor  sick  child  ?  I  am  sure  if  I  could  not  take  care  of 
mine,  I  would  trust  it  with  anybody  who  would  save  its  life." 
Thus  will  say  more  than  one  Christian  mother. 

Think — be  careful — be  not  uncharitable — good  mother. 
Would  you  let  it  go  with  those  who  saved  its  life  to  be 
reared  with  them — taught  their  creed — perhaps  to  hate  yours  ? 
Certainly  if  taught  the  principles  of  temperance — virtue — 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  31 7 

neatness — her  child  could  not  love  its  drunken  mother,  in  her 
rags  and  dirt  and  life  of  sin. 

"  But .  then  the  child  would  be  brought  up  by  religious 
teachers,  and  taught  to  be  a  Christian." 

Yes,  a  Protestant  Christian;  she  is  a  good  Catholic. 
Would  you  willingly  give  up  your  child  if  it  were  to  be  reared 
a  Pagan,  a  Mahometan,  or  even  a  Jew  ? 

"No!   I  would  let  it  die." 

There  spoke  the  Five  Points  mother.  Sooner  than  it 
should  go  into  a  Protestant  house,  she  would  see  it  die. 

Alas !  poor  human  nature ;  yes,  poor  human  nature,  sunk 
down  into  these  depths  of  misery  and  degradation,  yet  every 
one  of  them  are  our  brothers  and  sisters,  who  are  rearing  up 
children  like  themselves,  as  true  as  like  produces  like,  while 
we  look  on,  shrug  our  comfortably-wrapped  shoulders,  and 
"  Thank  God  we  are  not  like  one  of  these,"  and  yet  never 
give,  out  of  our  abundance,  one  cent  to  make  one  of  them 
like  one  of  us. 

"  Well,  what  of  her  husband  ?" 

"  My  husband,  is  it  ?"  she  said,  as  she  stood  glaring  at  us  ; 
"  my  husband  ?  Go,  look  in  your  city  prison,  you  old  gray- 
headed  villains,  where  ye  or  the  likes  of  ye,  murdered  him 
without  judge  or  jury.  Did  you  try  him  for  his  life  ?  No. 
Had  he  been  a  murderer  ?  No.  Had  he  done  any  crime  ? 
No.  You  licensed  him  to  sell  liquor,  and  he  drank  too  much 
— I  drank  too  much — what  else  can  you  expect,  when  you 
set  fools  to  play  with  live  coals,  but  they  will  burn  themselves  ? 
What  next  ?  What  is  the  natural  consequence  of  getting 


HOT     CORN. 


drunk  ?  A  quarrel.  I  know  it.  Don't  ask  me  what  I  get 
drunk  for  ;  I  know  you  did  not  spe'ak,  but  I  saw  it  in  your 
eye  —  yeS)  your  eye  —  turn  it  away  —  I  cannot  bear  it,  it  looks 
right  into  my  soul.  Don't  look  at  me  that  way,  or  I  shall 
cry,  and  I  had  rather  die  than  do  that.  It  would  kill  me  to 
cry  for  such  as  you,  who  murdered  my  poor  husband.  You 
licensed  him  to  sell  rum,  in  the  first  place,  to  make  other 
wives  miserable  with  drunken  husbands  —  mine  was  not 
drunken  then,  and  I  did  not  have  to  live  in  such  a  hole  as 
this  —  look  around  you,  ye  murdering  villains.  What  do  you 
see  ?  —  poverty,  filth,  and  rags  ;  starvation,  misery,  crime  —  on 
that  bed  is  my  dying  boy  —  that  is  nothing.  Let  him  die,  I 
am  glad  of  it  —  the  priest  has  made  it  all  right  with  him. 
Now,  look  in  that  bed,  rum-selling,  licensing  whelps  that  you 
are  —  that  is  worse  than  the  dying  boy  in  the  other  —  see  what 
we  have  bought  with  our  money  paid  to  your  excise  office. 
See  what  a  mother  is  sunk  to  by  rum.  Yes,  I  do  drink  it  — 
why  do  your  eyes  ask  the  question  ?  I  do  drink,  and  will 
again.  What  else  have  I  got  to  live  for  ?  What  lower  hole 
can  I  sink  to  ?  Me,  a  mother.  A  mother  !  Mother  of  that 
shameless  girl,  do  you  see  her,  there  in  that  bed,  before  her 
mother's  eyes  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  a  pretty  looking,  bright-eyed  girl  she  is." 
"  Bright-eyed.  Yes,  bright-eyed.  I  would  to  Heaven  she 
had  none  —  that  she  had  been  born  blind.  Her  bright  eyes 
have  been  her  ruin  —  a  curse  to  her  and  the  mother  that  bore 
her  —  they  are  a  curse  to  any  poor  girl  among  such  villains  as 
you  are.  Ye  are  men  —  how  many  hearts  have  you  broken  ? 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  319 

—withered,  trampled  on  ? — there,  go,  go.  I  hate  the  sight 
of  all  men." 

"  Who  is  this  man  I  see  with  your  daughter ;  is  he  her 
husband  3" 

"  Husband  !  husband !  Do  the  like  of  her  get  husbands  ? 
Where  is  my  husband  ?" 

"  We  cannot  tell,  can  you  ?" 

"  Tell !  who  can  tell  where  a  man  is  that  died  drunk— died 
• — murdered  in  your  man-killing  city  prison,  and  the  priest 
not  there  to  give  him  absolution.  What  had  he  done  ? 
What  crime  ?  Drank  rum  that  you  licensed  him  to  sell — 
.  beat  me  because  I  drank  too.  What  next  ?  Next  come 
your  dirty  police — the  biggest  scoundrels  in  the  city — mad  at 
my  husband  because  he  would  not  '  touch  their  palms,'  and 
drag  him  to  the  Tombs — a  right  name — good  name — true 
name — Tombs  indeed — a  tomb  to  my  husband." 

"Did  he  die  there?" 

"  No !  he  was  murdered  there.  Look  here.  Can  you 
read  ?  Yes,  yes,  I  know  ye  can.  So  can  I.  Do  you  seo 
that  account  of  prisoners  dying  by  suffocation — poisoned  by 
carbonic  acid  gas — there,  read  it," — and  she  thrust  a  crum 
pled  paper  before  us — "  read  how  ye  reform  drunkards — shut 
them  up  in  prison  cells,  and  in  spite  of  their  prayers,  and 
groans,  and  dying  cries  for  air,  ye  let  them  die.  Are  ye  not 
murderers  ?  Do  you  see  that  name  ?  That /is — that  was  my 
husband.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Now,  what  is  he,  where  is  he  ?  Don't 
answer — I  know  your  answer;  but  if  he  is  in  hell,  who 
sent  him  there  ?  Who,  who,  who  ?" 


320  HOT    conx.  » 

And  she  sank  down  upon  one  of  the  pallets  which  were 
spread  over  the  floor,  in  a  paroxysm  of  wild,  delirious  grief 
and  rage,  speechless  as  her  dying  boy,  lying  unheeded  and 
unheeding,  by  her  side.  What  could  we  do  ?  Nothing 
here  ;  much  elsewhere ;  and  we  looked  up  and  registered  a 
vow,  that  much  as  she  hated  us  for  what  we  had  not  done, 
yet  had  permitted  our  fellows  to  do  without  crying  out 
against  them,  that  she  should  be  avenged.  If  we  could  do 
nothing  here — if  we  could  not  pull  down  the  sturdy  oak  by 
taking  hold  of  its  topmost  branches,  yet,  although  its  mighty 
strength  defies  our  weak  efforts  thus  applied,  we  can  and  will 
dig  around  its  roots — we  will  take  away  the  life-sustaining 
earth — and  that  strong  tree  shall  be  made  to  feel  our  power 
— it  shall  wither,  dry  up,  and  die,  and  time  shall  rot  down 
its  strong  trunk,  and  the  place  that  once  knew  it,  shall  know 
it  no  more. 

This  then  is  our  pledge,  made  over  that  dying  boy,  and, 
worse  than  by  murder,  widowed  mother,  and  here  now  we 
redeem  it.  Here  we  expose  the  hydra-headed  monster — the 
orphan  and  widow-maker — the  property,  health,  and  virtue- 
destroyer.  Sad,  harrowing  as  these  scenes  of  wretchedness 
and  misery  are,  they  must  be  laid  open  to  the  gaze  of  the 
world.  "  Wounds  must  be  seen  to  be  healed."  Weak  nerves 
tremble  at  the  idea  that  physicians  cut  and  carve  the  dead, 
talking,  aye  laughing,  as  freely  over  the  quiet  heart  and  still 
nerves  in  the  dissecting-room,  as  the  butcher  over  his  beef 
upon  the  market  house  block ;  yet  without  the  dissecting  of 
one  and  butchering  of  the  other,  how  should  the  maimed  be 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  321 

healed,  or  meat-eating  multitude  be  fed?     So  let  us  on  with 
our  panorama  of  scenes  from  life  in  New  York. 

Let  us  open  this  door.     Ah  !  we  have  been  here  before. 

The  room  is  seven  by  twelve  feet,  under  the  roof,  which  cornea 
down  at  one  end  within  a  foot  of  the  floor.  There  is  a  broken, 
dirty,  window  in  the  roof,  at  the  right  hand  of  the  door  as  we 
enter  on  the  side.  No  fire-place  or  stove,  no  table,  only  two 
broken  chairs — a  very  old  bureau — a  dilapidated  trunk — a 
band-box — a  few  articles  of  female  apparel — some  poor  dishes 
and  a  few  cooking  ustensils — used  upon  a  little  portable  furnace 
standing  in  the  room — a  poor  old  bedstead  and  straw  bed  in  one 
corner — a  child's  cot  and  a  doll ;  and  yet  the  only  occupant  of 
the  room  is  an  old  negro  man,  who  sits  of  nights  upon  cold 
stones,  crying  Hot  Corn.  We  look  about  wonderingly,  peering 
in  here  and  there,  but  except  the  old  man  we  see  no  one. 

"  She  gone,  massa,  clean  gone — cry  old  eyes  out  when  I  come 
home  next  day  arter  dat  one,  you  know  massa,  which  one  dib 
child  mean — sad  day — don't  like  to  mention  him,  massa — 
give  me  chaw  terbacca,  massa — come  home  and  find  her  and 
little  sis — nice  child  dat — 

"You  found  her." 

"  No  sir,  found  her  gone — done  gone  entirely — key  in  old 
place  where  I  knew  where  to  find  him — everything  all  here — • 
no  word  for  old  Plato — what  I  give  to  see  her  once  more — to 
see  little  Sissee — Oh  that  I  knew  where  she  was.  Oh,  oh,  oh." 

"  And  would  to  Heaven  we  could  tell  what  has  become  of 
her." 

14* 


322  HOT     CORN. 

"  Who  ?"  said  the  lady  who  had  been  listening  with  intense 
interest  to  my  narrative. 

"  True,  I  had  forgotten  to  tell  you  that  we  stood  in  the 
chamber  where  little  Katy  died.  Where  that  last  sweet  kiss 
of  an  angel  was  given — where  the  candle  seemed  to  the  dying 
innocent  to  go  out — where  she  said,  *  Good  bye — mother — • 
don't  drink — any  more — good  b — '  but  before  the  word  was 
finished,  there  was  another  angel  added  to  the  heavenly  host 
around  the  throne  of  God." 

It  was  here  that  the  scene,  which  the  artist  has  so  touch- 
ingly  illustrated  upon  the  opposite  page,  transpired.  Turn 
your  thoughts  a  moment  from  this  page  to  that  and  look  upon 
the  picture.  Turn  back  to  Chapter  VI,  "The  Home  of  Little 
Katy,"  and  read  over  the  story  of  the  death  of  that  poor  inno 
cent,  and  you  will  better  appreciate  the  description  and  illus 
tration  of  that  home  and  that  dying  scene. 

'Twas  then  and  there  that  that  fallen  mother  was  touched 
by  a  power  greater  than  human  strength — 'twas  then  as  she 
knelt  over  her  dead  child,  she  had  said,  "  never,  never,  never, 
will  I  touch  that  accursed  poison  cup.  Oh,  God,"  she  prayed, 
"  take  my  child,  my  wronged  and  murdered  child,  and  I  will 
not  repine  ;  I  will  thank  thee  ;  I  will  praise  thy  name  as  my 
mother  taught  me  to  praise  thee ;  as  she  loved  and  blessed, 
and  prayed  for  me  all  her  life,  even  after  my  fall,  although 
hastened  to  her  grave  by  my  sin.  Oh,  my  mother,  forgive 
me ;  oh,  my  child,  forgive  me ;  oh,  my  God,  forgive  me,  but 
lei  me  live  to  repent,  and  be  a  mother  and  a  blessing  to  my 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  323 

living  child.  Oh,  my  sister,  where  are  you,  cold  and  unfor 
giving  sister,  but  for  you  I  had  not  been  here — why  could  you 
not  forgive.  Oh,  God,  canst  thou  ?" 

What  was  that  still  small  voice  that  seemed  to  say  in  our 
ears,  as  she  ceased  speaking,  and  lay  sobbing  upon  the  breast 
of  little  Katy  ? 

"  Yes,  sister,  he  can,  he  will,  he  has ;  rise,  thy  sins  are  for 
given  thee." 

Did  she  hear  it  too  ?  Else,  why  did  she  instantly  rise  up, 
with  dry  eyes  and  calm,  almost  happy  features  ? 

It  was  then  that  I  gained  from  her  the  secret  of  her  sister's 
name,  upon  a  promise  that  I  did  not  keep — I  could  not  keep 
— it  was  not  my  duty  to  keep  it.  But  where  has  she  gone  ? 
Has  her  sister  got  my  letter? — has  her  heart  at  last  been 
touched  ? — has  she  taken  her  away  ?  If  so,  why  has  she  not 
told  me  where.  Long  days  and  nights  of  anxiety  have  come 
and  gone,  and  she  comes  not  back  to  her  home.  Has  des 
pair  worked  its  wonted  result,  and  does  the  ocean  wave  roll 
over  the  mother  and  her  child,  in  a  suicide's  watery  grave  ? 

"  What  would  I  give  to  know  ?" 

"  You  must  wait,"  said  our  sympathizing  friend. 

Yes,  we  must  wait.  Yet  "  Hope  deferred  maketh  the  heart 
sick." 

"  Have  you  been  to  see  the  woman  who  sent  for  you  to 
day?" 

"  No  !     It  is  nobody  that  I  know.     Some  mistake." 

Yes,  it  was  some  mistake. 


324  HOT     CORN. 

"  But  she  sent  her  name  by  the  black  woman,  when  she 
came  the  second  time." 

"  I  know  it,  but  it  is  no  one  that  I  know.  The  name  is 
utterly  unknown  to  me.  It  is  a  French  name.  Some  mis 
take."  There  was  a  mistake. 

What  prompted  me  to  look  again  at  the  name  ?  I  knew  it 
as  well  as  I  should  if  I  looked  at  that  paper  a  hundred  times. 
Yet  I  was  prompted  to  look  at  it  once  more.  The  desire  was 
irresistible.  Who  has  ever  felt  a  longing  after  something 
unseen,  unknown,  unheard,  undefined,  something  that  he  feels 
as  though  he  must  have  or  die,  yet  knows  not  how  to  obtain, 
may  realize  the  intensity  of  my  desire  to  see  that  paper  once 
more.  Where  is  it  ?  This  pocket,  and  that  is  searched,  turned 
wrong  side  out,  and  turned  back  again  ;  the  table,  floor, 
books,  papers,  hunted  over,  but  nowhere  can  it  be  found. 
What  has  spirited  it  away  ?  It  could  not  blow  out  of  the 
window,  for  there  is  no  air  stirring. 

'  "  It  must,"  said  the  lady,  "  have  gone  down  on  the  tea-tray 
—I  will  call  Bridget." 

A  woman  is  worth  a  dozen  men  for  thought,  and  this  time 
she  thought  truly.  It  had  gone  down  that  way,  and  gone 
into  the  slop-bucket,  and  into  the  street. 

"  Bridget,  will  you  take  a  lamp  and  go  out  and  see  if  you 
can  find  it." 

"  Yes,  sir,  certainly,  and  I  think  I  can." 

Blessed  hope.  My  friend  was  curious  to  know,  what  in 
the  woild  I  wanted  of  that  piece  of  paper  ?  "  You  say,  you 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  325 

remember  the  name  and  number  perfectly,  an'd  yet  you  act  as 
though  it  was  of.  the  utmost  value.  I  recollect  seeing  you 
once  when  you  had  lost  a  twenty  dollar  bill,  as  cool  and  care 
less  as  though  it  had  been  as  worthless  as  this  little  scrap  of 
paper.  Now  you  act  strangely,  what  can  it  mean  ?" 

"  I  don't  know — I  know  I  want  to  see  that  paper.  I  can 
not  tell  why." 

"  Well,  you  will  soon  be  gratified.  She  has  found  it.  Do 
wait,  don't  be  so  impatient  to  meet  her  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs." 

I  did  not  wait  though.  I  gave  one  glance  at  the  soiled  scrap 
— it  was  enough — the  pen  and  ink  name  had  faded  out,  but 
there  were  three  words — talismanic  words — in  pencil  marks, 
evidently  added  as  an  after-thought  by  her  who  had  first 
written  her  name  in  ink — words  which  sent  me  out  of  the 
door,  and  half  way  to  the  next  street,  before  that  voice,  sent 
after  me  from  the  stair-he*ad,  of  "  Do  stop  him,  Bridget,  he 
is  crazy,  to  go  out  in  this  rain,"  had  reached  my  ears.  It  did 
not  stop  me — I  was  gone  beyond  the  reach  of  her  voice. 
The  girl  stood  amazed.  She  looked  at  the  scrap  of  paper 
with  about  the  same  degree  of  astonishment  as  did  the 
savage  tribe  at  the  white  man's  paper  talk. 

"  Bring  it  to  me,  Bridget." 

"  He  is  gone,  ma'am." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  he  is  gone,  bring  it  to  me." 

"  I  can't  ma'am,  he  is  gone." 

"  Not  him,  Bridget,  the  paper,  the  paper.  I  want  to  see 
what  is  on  it,  that  has  driven  that  man  out  at  this  hour,  in 
such  a  rainy  night." 


326  HOT     CORN. 

The  girl  looked  at  the  door  just  closed,  shutting  the  man 
out  in  the  rain,  then  she  examined  the  corner  where  the  cane 
and  umbrella  usually  stood,  to  be  sure  they  had  gone  out  too, 
that  she  had  not  been  dreaming  all  the  while  ;  then  she  gave 
a  glance  at  the  table  to  satisfy  herself  that  the  hat  had  gone 
with  the  cane  and  umbrella ;  then  she  looked  again  at  the 
paper,  to  see  what  magic  power  that  might  possess,  to  do 
such  midnight  deeds.  Papers  have  great  power.  Poor 
Bridget,  she  could  not  read,  but  she  could  feel,  and  she  knew 
that  there  was  a  cause — the  effect  she  had  seen. 

"  Bridget,  what  is  the  matter.?  are  you  frightened  to  death?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  No,  ma'am — only  speechless.  Did  you 
ever  see  the  like  ?  that  that  little  dirty  scrap  of  paper,  I 
picked  out  of  the  gutter,  should  send  the  gentleman  out  of 
the  house  faster  than  I  ever  saw  him  go  before  in  the  year 
and  a  half  I  have  been  with  you.  What  does  it  mean? 
"Will  you  please  to  tell  me,  what  these  little  marks  mean  ? 
What  does  it  read  ?  There  now,  you  can  see  them  good. 
Please,  read  them  to  me,  ma'am." 

"  Little  Katy's  Mother." 

"  Is  that  all  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  quite  enough.  I  wonder  not  he  went  so  quickly. 
T  almost  fancy  I  can — 

1  By  the  lamp  dimly  buming,  or  the  pale  moonlight — 
See  where  he  goes ' 

almost  past  whole  house  fronts  at  a  single  stride.     If  a  cart 
is   in   the   way   at   the  crossing  he   will   not  go  around — 


LIFE     SCENES    IN     NEW    YORK.  327 

two  steps  and  lie  is  over.  If  there  is  a  bell  at  the  door,  take 
care,  or  the  wires  will  crack.  If  a  knocker,  it  will  thunder 
loud  this  night.  Woe  to  the  watchman,  who,  thinking  he 
may  be  a  runaway  burglar,  puts  out  a  hand  to  stop  him  in 
his  walk.  The  bull,  that  butted  the  locomotive,  made  equal 
speed  in  his  intent.  He  went  down — the  steam  went  on." 

"  Is  he  mad,  ma'am  ?" 

"No,  Bridget,  only  enthusiastic.     If 'he  is  mad, 

'  There  is  method  in  his  madness,' 

he  is  only  very  much  interested  about  a  woman." 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  I  understand  it  now.  I  nave  seen  gen 
tlemen  often  mad  after  women.  I  suppose  little  Katy,  then, 
is  his  child." 

"  Oh,  no,  Bridget,  you  are  all  wrong.  She  is  not  his 
child." 

"Oh,  well,  ma'am,  then,  I  suppose,  she  is  somebody's  else 
child.  And  if  her  mother  is  an  interesting  woman,  I  don't 
see  as  there  is  anything  so  very  wrong  about  the  matter. 
What  am  I  all  wrong  about,  ma'am  ?" 

"  Little  Katy  is  dead." 

"  Oh,  is  she  ?  I  am  sure  then  I  am  very  sorry.  Can  I  do 
anything  about  helping  to  get  her  ready  to  be  buried  ?" 

"No,  she  was  buried  long  ago.  You  may  see  her  grave 
some  day  in  Greenwood  Cemetery." 

"  I  don't  see,  then,  what  was  the  gentleman's  great  hurry,  if 
nobody  is  sick  and  nobody  to  be  buried." 

"  Perhaps  the  mother  is  sick — perhaps  in  want — perhaps 


328  HOT     CORN. 

some  unknown  power  has  drawn  him  to  her  assistance. 
I  have  seen  stranger  things  than  that.  This  is  a  strange 
world." 

"  Indeed  it  is,  ma'am.  And  there  is  a  strange  noise  in  the 
street."  And  she  looked  from  the  window. 

"  What  can  it  be,  Bridget,  there  is  a  crowd  around  our  area 
fence,  and  see,  there  is  a  woman  under  the  steps  by  the  base 
ment  door.  Go  down  and  see  what  is  the  matter.  Are  you 
afraid  ?  Well  then,  I  will  go  with  you ;  it  is  somebody  that 
a  parcel  of  brutal  men  and  boys  are  persecuting.  No  matter 
who,  or  what  she  is,  she  is  a  woman,  and  should  be  pro 
tected." 

So  down  they  went  and  she  said  to  them,  "  Oh  men,  men, 
where  is  your  manhood,  thus  to  hunt  a  woman  through  the 
streets  ?  Have  you  forgotten  that  mothers  bore  you  in  pain 
into  this  world  ?  Have  you  no  daughters,  no  sisters,  are  you 
savages — wolves — is  this  a  lamb  or  stricken  deer,  that  ye  trail 
by  her  bloody  track  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  a  bull  pup  looking  boy,  "  she  is  drunk, 
and  we  is  just  having  a  little  fun  with  her,  that  is  all." 

God  of  mercy !  Didst  thou  make  man  in  thine  own  image, 
and  yet  leave  him  void  of  that  heavenly  attribute — mercy  ? 
Why,  "  a  merciful  man  is  merciful  to  his  beast,"  and  yet  these 
images  of  their  Maker  hunt  this  poor  woman  through  the 
streets  of  a  Christian  city,  as  savages  hunt  tigers  through  the 
jungles  of  Africa — for  fun.  What  for  ?  "  She  is  drunk."  A 
potent  reason,  surely.  Who  made  her  so  ?  How  came  she 
drunk?  Who  is  she,  what  is  she?  No  matter,  she  is  a 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  329 

woman,  in  distress  at  a  woman's  door,  and  she  must,  she  shall 
be  protected.  There  is  a  commotion  in  the  crowd.  The 
human  blood-hounds  are  about  to  lose  their  prey — They  want 
more  fun. 

"  Bring  her  out  Bill,  never  mind  the  women — it  is  none  of 
their  business — bring  her  out  and  let  us  see  her  run  again. 
She  is  a  real  '2.40'  nag." 

And  they  shouted  and  screamed  like  so  many  wild  Indians. 

What  but  savages  are  they  ?  True  they  had  white  skins 
and  Christian  clothes,  and  spoke  the  language  of  a  civilized 
nation,  and  dwelt  in  "  one  of  the  first  cities  in  the  world." 
Yet  they  pursued  a  poor,  young,  helpless  female,  like  a 
hunted  hare  through  the  streets,  and  now  press  hard  upon 
her  two  protectors ;  one  a  delicate,  sickly  lady,  the  other  a 
timid  servant  girl,  with  a  cry  to  Bill,  the  leader,  to  "  bring 
her  out" — to  drag  her  by  force  from  where  she  has  sunk 
down  upon  the  very  threshold  of  a  house  which  she  hopes 
may  offer  her  protection,  yet  she  dares  not  ask  it.  Shame 
has  overcome  her,  she  buries  her  face  in  her  hands  as  she  sits 
crouched  up  in  a  corner,  but  neither  looks  up  nor  speaks. 
The  crowd  press  forward,  the  servant  shrinks  baclj,  the  lady 
stands  firm,  with  a  determination  to  protect  or  perish. 

Can  she  do  it  ?  What  can  a  woman  without  strength,  do 
against  a  pack  of  loosened  blood-hounds,  already  lickir  g  their 
chops  with  delight  at  the  sight  of  their  prey  ? 

"  Drag  her  out,  some  of  ye,  down  there,  why  don't  ye," 
screamed  a  human  tiger,  in  the  rear  of  the  crowd;  "don't 


330  HOT     CORN. 

mind  that  woman,  she  is  no  better  than  the  gal.  Let  me  in 
and  Til  bring  her." 

A  strong  hand  is  laid  upon  the  poor  girl's  arm,  and  for  the 
first  time  she  looks  up,  but  ventures  not  a  word.  The  look  was 
enough.  It  appealed  to  a  woman's  heart  for  protection — an 
appeal  that  never  failed.  How  can  she  protect  the  helpless 
with  her  feeble  strength,  against  the  brutal  force  of  rum  crazed 
men  and  vicious  boys,  who  shout,  "  drag  her  out,  drag  her  out." 

Will  they  do  it?  They  heed  not  the  appealing  look  of  their 
victim — their  object  of  sport — -fun — fun  for  them,  death  to 
her.  They  heed  not  the  appealing  words  of  her  who  would 
protect.  God  help  you,  poor  soul,  you  have  drank  wine — you 
are  drunk  in  the  streets  at  midnight — you  have  none  but  those 
who  are  as  weak  as  yourself,  to  save  you,  poor,  timid,  stricken 
fawn. 

"  Drag  her  out,  drag  her  out."  How  it  rung  in  her  ears ! 
How  those  terrible  words  went  down  into  her  soul ! 

Succor  is  at  hand. 

There  was  a  shout,  a  yell,  a  horrid  scream  of  anguish,  a 
few  hurried  oaths,  a  pushing,  shoving,  care-for-self-only  strug 
gle  among  the  crowd,  as  a  shower  of  smoking  water  fell  among 
them,  and  they  were  gone. 

The  lady  turned  her  eyes,  and  there  stood  Mrs.  McTra- 
vers,  in  her  ni6ht  cap,  pail  in  hand,  her  effective  engine  of 
war. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  McTravers,  how  could  you  scald  them  ?" 

"Did'nt  they  deserve  it,  the  brutes?" 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  331 

"  Yes,  yes ;  no,  not  so  bad  as  that.  I  am  afraid  you  have 
put  out  their  eyes." 

"  Oh,  never  fear  that.  Didn't  I  timper  it,  like  '  the  wind 
to  the  shorn  lamb,'  just  warm  enough  to  wash  the  faces  of 
the  dirty  spalpeens,  and  give  them  a  good  fright?  How  the 
cowarcis  did  run.  What  were  they  afraid  of?  I  had  spe'nt 
all  my  ammunition  in  the  first  volley.  This  is  nothing  but 
cold  water,  and  that  never  hurt  anybody.  It  is  a  pity  the 
scurvy  dogs  did  not  use  more  of  it  every  day,  and  nothing 
else.  They  would  never  chase  poor  girls  through  the  streets, 
if  they  drank  nothing  but  water.'' 

"  Come,  young  woman,  you  can  get  up  now  and  go  home,  if 
you  have  any  to  go  to,  and  if  you  have  not.  what  are  you 
going  to  do  with  yourself?" 

"  Why,  Mrs.  McTravers,  we  will  take  her  in  and  put  her 
to  bed,  and  let  her  sleep  till  morning." 

"Take  her  in?  What,  take  a  common  street-walker  in 
to  disgrace  your  house  ?" 

"Indeed,  my  dear,  good,  kind  lady,"  said  the  object  of 
their  conversation,  now  for  the  first  time  speaking.  "  I  am  no 
street-walker — I  am  not  what  you  take  me  for.  Do  not — 
pray  do  not,  force  me  to  go  into  the  street  again  to-night. 
Let  me  lay  here  on  the  door-sill  till  daylight." 

"  Never !  It  shall  never  be  said  I  refused  to  give  shelter  to 
one  of  my  own  sex  in  distress,  no  matter  what  she  is  or  has 
been.  Mrs.  McTravers,  she  must  have  a  bed  in  the  house 
to-night." 


332  HOT     CORN. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  then  where  you  will  find  it 
Every  bed  in  the  house  is  full." 

"  I  will  give  her  mine  then,  and  sleep  myself  on  the  floor." 

"  No,  no,  no,  let  me  sleep  on  the  flr>cr — on  the  hearth — on 
the  stones  in  the  back-yard,  rather  than  go  in  the  street 
again,  but  I  won't  sleep  in  your  bed." 

"  Well,  well,  come  with  me  to  my  room.  I  will  make  you  a 
bed  on  the  floor,  and  you  shall  sleep  there." 

"  Sure,  sure,  Heaven  will  bless  you ;  and  if  you  knew  all 
you  would  forgive  me,  for  I  am  not  so  bad  as  you  tiink  I  am, 
or  as  that  woman  thinks  I  am." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  what  she  says,  she  has  a  good  heart  after 
all.  Come,  come  along  with  me." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  like  of  it.  She  is  going  to  take 
that  thing  to  her  room,  a  miserable  tramper ;  I  dare  say  the 
house  will  be  robbed  before  morning.  I  will  pick  up  the 
spoons,  and  lock  all  the  closets,  before  I  go  to  bed  again. 
Dear  me,  did  anybody  ever  see  such  a  woman  as  that  ?  She 
never  sees  a  woman  in  rags,  but  she  wants  to  pull  off  her 
shawl,  and  give  her.  I  dare  say,  she  won't  let  this  girl  out 
of  the  house  to-morrow  till  she  has  all  her  draggled  clothes 
washed  and  fixed  up,  and  may  be  then  will  send  for  a  car 
riage  to  take  her  away.  It  is  a  great  plague  to  anybody  to 
have  such  a  tender  heart.  It  is  all  the  time  getting  the"m 
into  trouble. 

"  There,  now  I  believe  the  silver  is  all  safe,  but  mercy  knows 
what  will  become  of  this  night's  adventure.  So  much  for  get- 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  333 

ting  drunk.  What  does  anybody  want  to  get  drunk  for  ? 
There  was  McTravers,  the  brute,  always  getting  drunk.  I  am 
sure,  I  love  a  little  bitters  to  clear  my  throat  in  the  morning, 
and  a  glass  or  two  of  wine  at  dinner,  and  a  little  hot  stuff  as 
I  am  going  to  bed,  but  as  for  getting  drunk — bah — I  hate 
anybody  that  gets  drunk.  Oh,  dear,  this  night  air,  I  wish  I 
had  not  wasted  all  the  hot  water  on  the  drunken  dogs,  for  I 
do  feel  as  though  I  wanted  a  dram  now,  and  no  more  water 
— what  will  I  do  ?  I  must  take  a  little  cold,  or  I  shall  not 
sleep  a  wink  to-night.  Bah,  how  I  hate  drunkards." 

What  for,  Mrs.  McTravers,  why  should  you  hate  your 
own  manufacture  ? 

Let  the  reader  reflect ;  there  is  a  night  before  him. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  we  shall  see  what  the  author  saw 
last  night 


334 


HOT     CORN. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

LITTLE    KATY'S    MOTHER. 

"  A  true  devoted  pilgrim  is  not  weary, 
To  measure  kingdoms  with  his  steps." 

WHEN  Mrs.  McTravers  told  me  that  Mrs.  De  Vrai  had  sent 
a  message  for  me,  I  was  too  weary  to  measure  steps  along  a 
few  blocks  ;  but  when  I  read  those  three  little  magic  words, 
weariness  had  gone.  Bridget  thought  so  too.  "  He  is  gone, 
ma7 am."  Yes,  he  was  gone,  gone  abroad  at  midnight  with  a 
merry  heart. 

"A  merry  heart  goes  all  day, 
Your  sad  one  tires  in  a  mile." 

A  mile  was  soon  told,  and  I  felt  no  tiring.  Up  this  step 
and  that,  peering  at  the  blind  numbers  on  the  doors ;  how 
could  I  tell  one  from  the  other  ?  The  almanac  said  there 
should  be  moonshine  at  this  hour,  the  clouds  and  rain  put  in 
their  veto.  No  matter,  the  almanac  had  said  it,  and  that  was 
enough  for  the  gas  contractors.  If  the  moon  chose  *o  get 
behind  a  cloud,  it  was  none  of  their  look  out.  They  would 
not  light  their  lamps,  though  darkness,  thick,  black  darkness, 
spread  over  the  earth.  Why  should  they  ?  It  was  not  in 
the  bond.  So  the  traveller  plodded  on  in  the  dark.  How 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NE\N     YORK.  835 

could  one  see  the  numbers  ?  Not  by  city  light,  but  by  city 
license.  Here  burns  a  "  coffee-house  "  lamp,  where  rum  alone 
is  sold.  More  improvident  than  his  city  fathers,  this  one  lights 
up  his  lamp,  of  dark,  rainy  nights,  whether  the  moon  is  in  the 
almanac,  or  city  fathers'  brains.  His  number  is  plain  enough. 
'Tis  an  even  number — I  am  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  street. 
Now,  cross  over,  and  here  is,  47,  49,  51,  53 — this  must  be  it, 
and  yet  it  cannot  be.  It  is  a  neat,  two  story,  brick  house, 
with  basement  and  attic,  in  a  row  of  the  same  sort,  in  a  clean, 
wide  street. 

It  is  a  very  unlikely  place  for  such  a  home  as  we  have  seen, 
for  the  home  of  Little  Katy's  mother. 

How,  are  we  deceived  again  ?  It  must  be  in  the  number ', 
perhaps  we  can  not  see  it  rightly  by  the  dim  glimmer  of  the 
grog-shop  lamp.  It  is  the  first  glimmer  that  ever  came  from 
such  a  place  to  any  good. 

There  is  no  bell  but  there  is  an  old-fashioned  iron  knocker 
upon  the  door ;  shall  I  use  it ;  what  if  it  wakes  up  some  strange 
sleeper  and  brings  a  fever-heated  night-capped  angry  head  out 
of  the  upper  window,  with  hasty  words,  perhaps  cross  ones  of 
"  who  is  there  ?"  I  have  no  familiar  "  it's  me,"  to  answer. 
No  one  will  say,  "  wait  a  moment,  dear,  and  I  will  open  the 
door." 

All  is  still  within.  It  were  a  pity  to  disturb  the  quiet 
sleepers  for  nothing,  nothing  but  the  gratification  of  idle  cu 
riosity  ;  to  make  the  inquiry  if — if — Mrs.  Mrs. — what  was  her 
name  ?  Now  that  is  gone — faded  from  my  memory  as  easily 
as  it  was  washed  away  from  that  paper.  Whom  could  I  inquire 


336  HOT     CORX. 

for?  Should  I  inquire  for  "Little  Katy's  Mother?"  I  should 
in  all  probability  be  told  to  go  across  the  street  and  inquire 
there,  where  I  got  my  liquor,  upon  which  to  get  drunk.  Or 
else,  perhaps,  to  go  home  and  inquire  if  my  "  mother  knew 
/,hat  I  was  out ;"  or  told  that  she  might  happen  to  wake  up, 
and  find  her  green  gosling  of  a  son  gone — gone  out  in  the 
street  to  inquire  after  little  girls'  mothers — no  doubt  she  would 
be  much  alarmed.  It  was  well  that  the  moon  was  veiled,  or 
else  the  man  in  it  would  have  seen  how  sheepish  I  looked  as 
I  sneaked  down  the  steps,  with  a  weary  step,  that  could  not 
have  gone  the  half  a  mile  without  tiring. 

How  I  did  rejoice  that  no  watchman  was  in  sight  to  see 
how  crest-fallen  I  went  away  and  stood  up  in  the  shade  of  a 
lamp  post !  A  few  minutes  afterwards,  I  would  have  given 
gold  for  the  sight  of  a  brass  star. 

What  for1?  Why  did  I  not  go  home  ?  What  prompted 
me  to  keep  watch  at  that  lamp  post  ?  My  object  in  coming 
had  failed.  I  had  acted  upon  the  momentary  spur  of  a  ner 
vous  temperament,  heated  into  a  state  of  excitement  by  what 
I  had  seen  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening,  connected  with 
some  of  the  scenes  of  the  last  few  weeks'  exciting  life,  which 
had  driven  me,  without  consideration,  to  start  off  chasing  an 
ignis  fatuus,  in  the  swampy,  Jack  o'lantern  producing  air  of 
this  city,  and  it  had  led  me  here  and  left  me  leaning  against 
a  lamp  post.  Was  ever  poor  wight  led  into  a  deeper  bog  ? 
"  Go  home,"  reason  told  us.  .  If  the  lamp  post  had  been  a  re 
pelling  magnet,  I  should  have  gone.  It  was  the  contrary,  and 
I  could  not  break  the  attraction. 


A     NKW-YORK    STKEET    SCENE. Page  34  1 


LIFE     SCENES     IN  .  NEW    YORK.    .  337 

That  iron  ]amp  post  may  possess  a  very  strong  magnetic 
power,  yet  it  is  hardly  possible,  or  probable — nay,  it  is  very 
improbable  that  it  was  that  power  which  had  drawn  me 
hither  and  kept  me  waiting  "  coming  events." 

They  do  "  cast  their  shadows  before,"  for  the  shadow,  ana 
then  the  substance  of  a  man  came  round  the  corner.  Like 
half  of  those  who  walk  the  streets  at  this  hour,  he  was  drunk.4 
Just  then  there  was  a  moving  light  in  No.  53.  The  intoxica 
ted  night-walker  caught  the  sight  of  it  just  as  he  came 
opposite  the  lamp  post,  and  he  stopped  and  laughed  one  of 
those  horrid  laughs,  which  give  the  blood  a  chill  and  send  it 
with  a  pang  and  fluttering  fear  to  the  heart. 

The  last  sad  remains  of  a  gentlemen — no — a  roue,  stood  in 
the  dim  light  of  a  lamp  which  had  been  to  him  the  guide  to 
ruin. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  my  old  bird,  you  are  astir  I  see.  It  is  a  long 
time  since  I  have  seen  you,  but  I  have  caged  you  at  last. 
You  would  not  speak  to  me,  ha,  in  Broadway,  but  I  tracked 
you  home,  and  now  I  am  going  to  roost  in  the  old  nest,  or  I 
will  blow  you  out  of  your  fine  feathers,  my  lady.  Won't  let 
me  in  ?  Won't  let  me  in  i  Then  I  will  break  in.  Hold,  here 
comes  a  £tar.  I'll  keep  dark  while  it  shines."  Back  he  went 
around  the  corner,  the  star  went  carelessly  onward  down  that 
way,  and  I  went  eaves-dropping.  I  was  impelled  to  do  it.  I 
saw  a  light  come  in  the  front  room  and  heard  voices,  and  felt 
that  there  was  some  strange  connection  between  this  house 
and  that  man,  and  perhaps  myself,  and  that  the  mystery  must 
soon  be  solved. 

M 


338  »  HOT     COKN. 

. 

The  blinds  were  closed,  but  the  sash  was  up.  I  stood  close 
under  the  window,  and  the  voices  dropped  down  upor,  my  ear 
through  the  slats,  clear  and  distinct  as  though  I  had  been  in 
the  room. 

The  light-bearer  with  a  noiseless  step,  as  though  afraid  of 
awaking  some  sick  sleeper,  approached  a  bed,  shading  the 
*light  with  her  hand. 

It  was  no  use.  The  timid  start  easy.  There  was  a  rustling 
sound,  as  though  some  one  started  up  from  an  uneasy  pillow 
and  sleep-disturbing  dreams. 

"  Will  he  come  ?" 

That  voice,  those  words.  Do  I  dream,  or  are  there  spirits 
near?  Oh,  how  familiar — how  painfully  familiar — reminis- 
cential  of  things  past.  What  can  it  mean  ?  But  one  voice 
ever  spoke  those  words  in  that  tone,  and  that  voice  will  never 
speak  again.  The  dreamer  is  in  the  street.  It  is  my  brain 
that  is  disturbed.  Hark !  Again  !  I  heard  aright. 

"  Oh,  no,  he  will  not  come.  Why  should  he  ?  What  am 
I  to  him  ?  Yet  I  wanted  to  see  him  a  moment.  It  seems  as 
though  it  is  he  only  who  can  protect  me  from  that  dreaded 
man.  Oh,  Phebe,  Phebe,  what  should  we  do  if  he  were 
to  come  here  to-night?  He  has  sworn  to  have  revenge  upon 
me  for  leaving  him ;  yet  how  could  I  live  with  a  man  who 
threatened  my  life  every  day  in  his  drunken  fits?  Long  after 
I  went  to  Paris,  he  wrote  to  me  that  he  would  rob  me  of  my 
child — his  child,  if  he  died  in  the  attempt  I  long  thought — 
nfty,  hoped  that  he  was — that  is,  that  he  never  would  return 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.-  330 

from  Cuba.  I  heard  of  him  in  the  dungeons  of  the  Moro,  and 
now  he  is  here." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I  is  sure  he  is  here.  Dat  am  de  fact.  Jis 
sich  man,  stout,  red  face,  black  hair,  and  such  eyes.  I  is  sure 
he  is  a  wicked  man." 

"  Only  when  he  is  drinking." 

"  Well,  dat  all  de  time  wid  some  folk." 

There  was  a  groan  of  anguish  in  the  bed. 

"  But,  Phebe,  you  describe  his  looks  just  as  I  saw  them  to 
day.  Have  you  seen  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am — thought  I  wouldn't  tell  you  though — 
but  it  come  out  when  I  didn't  know  him." 

"  Where  ?     Has  he  been  here  ?     Has  he  tracked  me  home  ?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  ma'am,  when  I  goes  to  the  door  to  let 
Agnes  Brentnall  out,  I  sees  him  over  the  way,  by  de  lamp, 
and  when  she  goes  down  the  street,  he  walks  after  her,  and 
dat  am  last  I  see  of  him  dis  night." 

"  Poor  girl,  then  she  is  lost.  If  ever  he  fixes  his  basalisk 
eye  upon  her  beauty,  how  can  she  escape.  Poor  girl — God 
protect  thee — man  will  not." 

There  was  a  sobbing  that  told  of  tears — tears  that  told  of  a 
kind  heart,  crushed  by  a  cold  and  careless  world. 

Then  I  was  about  to  enter,  but  something  said,  "  not  yet," 
and  I  stepped  down  into  the  shadow  by  the  high  steps,  till  the 
footfall  I  heard  upon  the  pavement  should  go  by. 

It  did  not  pass — it  came  directly  up  to  the  door,  familiar 
as  a  burglar  with  its  night  latch  key.  Why  had  they  not 


340  HOT     CORN. 

bolted  the  door?  It  opened  as  though  to  one  who  had  a 
right  to  enter.  The  intruder — it  was  the  dark-visaged  man  I 
had  seen  five  minutes  before — closed  the  door  gently  after  him 
without  latching  it. 

There  was  a  thin  lace  curtain  before  the  window,  through 
which,  as  I  looked  in  between  the  slats  of  the  blind,  I  could 
see  Um  as  he  approached  the  bed.  Phebe  had  left  the  light 
'  and  gone  into  the  back  room.  The  lady  had  buried  her  face 
in  the  pillows — nothing  but  her  raven  locks,  hanging  loose  in 
her  neck,  were  visible.  The  villain  looked  at  her  for  a 
moment,  then,  satisfied  that  she  was  asleep,  he  reached  over 
her,  and  lifted  a  beautiful  little  girl  from  her  side. 

"Mother!  mother!" 

The  light  shone  in  her  face — the  mother  started  at  the 
appealing  cry  for  help — sprang  up — Heavens,  what  do  we  see  ? 
It  is  little  Sissee — Little  Katy's  sister  and  her  mother ! 

What  a  sight  for  that  mother!  The  man  she  so  much 
dreaded — the  man  who  had  so  disturbed  her  dreams — with 
her  child,  her  last,  her  only  child,  in  his  strong  arms,  and  no 
one  near  to  protect,  to  save. 

She  sprang  towards  him,  and  fixed  her  feeble  hands  in  his 
hair.  Of  what  avail  ?  He  flung  her  from  him  reeling,  fainting, 
across  the  room.  The  noise  brought  the  faithful  Phebe  from 
her  couch — too  late.  The  mother  saw  her  child  disappearing 
m  the  dark  passage — she  heard  her  screams  for  help — she 
heard  no  more.  One  look  of  his  terrible  eye,  as  he  bore  away 
her  struggling  child,  was  enough  to  kill  one  of  a  stronger  form 
than  hers.  One  look  of  satisfied  revenge — ^revenge  of  a  man 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  341 

upon  a  feeble  woman,  and  his  hand  is  upon  the  door.  One 
step  more  and  he  is  in  the  street.  One  step  more  and  ha 
fell,  beneath  a  blow  of  a  stout  cane  in  a  strong  man's  hand, 
and  lay  trembling  across  that  threshold,  quivering  like  a  bul 
lock  felled  by  the  butcher's  blow. 

"  Here,  Phebe,  take  the  child ;  take  care  of  the  mother ; 
tell  her  all  is  safe ;  the  Lord  watches  over  the  truly  penitent , 
he  will  protect ;  he  will  save." 

I  dragged  the  unconscious  mass  of  human  flesh  down  upon 
the  pavement,  and  struck  three  sharp  blows  upon  the  stones, 
with  the  broken  cane — broken  in  avenging  a  feeble  woman. 
It  was  answered  right  and  left,  up  and  down,  and  again 
repeated.  I  peered  into  the  darkness  for  the  coming 
succor. 

Will  it  come  ?  Will  it  come  in  time  ?  For  a  strong  hand 
has  seized  my  only  weapon,  now  he  has  it  in  his.  There  is  a 
momentary  struggle — the  prostrate  man  is  up  and  the  other 
one  down. 

A  large  Bowie  knife,  the  midnight  prowler's  fashionable 
weapon,  is  gleaming  at  my  throat.  A  moment  more,  and  all 
my  debts  were  paid  and  duties  done. 

Moments  fleet  fast,  but  all  too  slow  for  the  assassin's  knife, 
when  it  is  not  the  will  of  Him  that  giveth  life,  that  life  should 
fail.  The  knife  fell,  but  not  with  a  blow — it  fell  from  a 
broken  arm. 

The  watchman's  club  had  done  the  work.  The  watchman 
had  heard  the  call,  and  had  come  in  time  to  save  the  avenger, 
and  punish  the  assassin. 


342  HOT     CORN. 

"  Take  him  away.  You  know  me  and  where  to  send  when 
I  am  wanted.  I  have  another  life  to  save  inside  this  house." 

What  was  said  or  done  need  not  be  told.  The  reader  is 
dull  of  divining  power,  if  he  does  not  already  know.  1 
cannot  tell.  I  only  know  that  I  awaked  from  a  short  nap, 
next  morning,  in  an  easy  chair,  with  a  sweet  little  girl,  some 
three  years  old,  clinging  her  arms  around  my  neck  and  nest 
ling  her  cheek  up  to  mine.  Had  mortal  ever  sweeter  dreams  ? 

"  What  time  is  it,  I'hebe  ?" 

"  Don't  know  dat,  sir  ;  sun  up  yonder." 

"  Is  it  ?  And  she  sleeps  quietly  ?  Very  well,  let  her  sleep. 
I  will  send  a  doctor,  on  my  way  home,  to  look  at  her.  Good 
by.  Bon  jour,  Sis.  One  more  kiss,  there." 

"  You  will  come  again,  when  mamma  wakes  up  ?" 

«  Yes— Goodbye." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  343 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AGNES     BRENTNALL. 
•»  Every  inordinate  cup  is  unblessed,  and  the  ingredient  is  a  devil." 

So  it  proved  that  night  to  Agnes  Brentnall.  But  who  is 
she  ?  That  we  have  yet  to  learn. 

We  have  only  heard  the  name  once,  during  the  conversa 
tion,  between  Madame  De  Vrai  and  the  black  woman,  Phebe, 
overheard  in  that  eaves-dropping  midnight  scene  described  in 
the  last  chapter,  unless  this  Agnes  is  the  same  one  that  we 
saw  in  a  previous  midnight  scene.  Perhaps  it  is,  for  now  we 
remember  there  was  a  Phebe  in  that,  At  any  rate  that  name, 
from  both  of  these  night  scenes,  had  become  deeply  impressed 
upon  my  mind,  as  belonging  to  a  beautiful  girl,  followed  in 
the  street  by  a  night-prowling  wolf,  with  a  canine  instinct 
which  snuffs  in  the  breeze  the  far-off  scent  that  leads  him  to 
some  wandering  female. 

Mrs.  De  Vrai  had  said ;  "  Then  she  is  lost." 

What  had  become  of  her?  Had  the  woman-devouring 
monster  consumed  the  innocent  girl  and  come  back  for  more 
prey?  He  will  prey  no  more,  soon  'f  he  has  met  his  deserts 
at  last.  The  stony  walls  of  the  Tombs'  prison,  will  hold  him 
safe,  and  when  he  recovers  from  his  broken  arm,  the  law  will 


841  HOT   CORIT. 

have  its  course.  He  will  make  a  good  Sing  Sing  worker  iu 
stone.  It  will  not  break  his  heart,  for  it  is  as  hard  as  the 
stone  he  will  hammer. 

But  what  of  poor  Agnes  ?  Would  that  I  knew.  Did  she 
fall  before  his  basalisk  eye  ?  Such  thoughts  were  upon  my 
mind  as  I  entered  the  door  of  the  house  I  called  my  home, 
after  such  a  night  of  strange  adventures  as  I  have  just  made 
the  reader  acquainted  with. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?"  was  the  anxious  question  that 
met  me  as  I  entered. 

"  What  in  the  world  took  you  out  and  kept  you  out  all 
night  ?  Did  you  find  that  woman  ?  How  is  she  ?  Is  any 
thing  the  matter?  I  do  think  you  might  write  quite  a 
romance  out  of  your  adventures." 

.  There  is  no  occasion  to  write  romance,  it  is  only  necessary 
to  give  the  real  pictures  of  life — real  scenes  as  they  occur  in 
New  York,  to  make  up  a  volume  more  strange  than  wildest 
romance. 

"Where  have  I  been?  Where  I  saw  strange  sights. 
Where  it  does  seem  as  though  some  mysterious  influence  led 
me,  to  meet  with  another  adventure." 

"  You  might  have  had  one  at  home,  sufficiently  interesting, 
I  should  think.  A  young  girl,  wickedly  made  drunk,  for  the 
basest  purpose  on  earth — 'tis  a  horrid  tale — you  shall  hear  it 
by  and  by — unprotected — alone  in  the  street,  at  midnight — 
staggering  to  and  fro,  chased  like  a  dog  by  a  crowd  of  boys 
and  half-drunken  men,  taking  refuge  in  our  basement  area, 
within  ten  minutes  after  you  left  the  house." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  345 

"  You  took  her  in  ?  Yes,  yes  ;  I  see,  I  see — a  heavenly 
deed  produces  a  heavenly  smile." 

What  was  it  shot  through  my  brain  ?  A  thought.  A 
strange  thought.  What  could  have  sent  it  there.  Is  it  true  ? 
We  shall  see. 

"  What  is  her  name  ? — where  is  she  ?  You  have  not  sent 
her  away  ?" 

"  You  shall  see — come  up-stairs.  She  is  not  up  yet.  She 
has  been  distressingly  sick — she  is  better  now,  almost  well, 
though  very  feeble.  The  doctor  says,  she  was  poisoned." 

"  No  doubt,  if  drunk,  of  course  she  was.  Every  drop  of 
drunkenness-producing  liquor  is  poison,  of  the  most  subtle 
kind — slow,  but  sure." 

She  was  still  in  bed.     Her  kind  protector  had  furnished 
her  with  a  clean,  white  bed-gown  and  cap,  and  a  prettier  face,* 
indicating  about  sixteeen  or  seventeen  years,  never  looked  up 
smilingly  from  a  downy  pillow. 

"  She  is  very  pale  now.  She  vomited  terribly  all  the  lat 
ter  part  of  the  night.  Her  color  will  soon  come  again." 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  I  feel  quite  well  now.  Do  let  me  get  up 
and  dress  myself,  and  go  home — I  cannot  bear  to  be  a  trouble 
to  you  any  longer.  Oh,  sir,  she  has  been  a  mother  to  me — 
more  than  a  mother — if  I  had  such  a  mother ." 

"  Well,  well,  my  girl,  never  mind  now.  You  cannot  get 
up  yet.  You  must  keep  quiet  to-day.  To-morrow,  we  will 
see  you  safe  home." 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  cannot  possibly  wait  till  to-morrow.  What  will 
Mrs.  Meltrand  think  ?" 

15* 


346  HOT     CORN. 

She  shall  know  all  about  it  before  night." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no!  not  all,  not  all!  I  should  die  wittt 
shame." 

"  Well,  then,  only  that  you  have  been  to  see  a  friend,  and 
was  taken  very  sick." 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  to  see  a  friend,  a  dear  friend,  a  poor 
unfortunate  woman.  Indeed,  I  must  get  up.  She  is  sicker 
than  I  am,  and  besides,  I  promised  to  go,  too,  and  see  a  friend 
for  her.  It  is  a  gentleman  that  she  thinks  a  great  deal  of, 
sir, — one  who  was  very  kind  to  her  when  she  was  very  bad, 
and  lived  very  miserably,  and  she  thinks  he  was  sent  by  Pro 
vidence  to  save  her  from  total  ruin.  That,  sir,  was  before 
her  little  daughter  died.  Did  you  ever  read  about  that,  sir  ? 
it  was  published  in  *  the  New  York  Tribune.'  " 

"  I  do  not  know ;  that  paper  publishes  so  many  stories.  I 
read  the  most  of  them.  Then,  you  want  to  see  Mr.  Greeley. 
You  need  not  go  there  for  that,  you  can " 

"  Oh,  are  you  Mr.  Greeley,  then  ?" 

"  No,  but  I  shall  see  him  soon,  and  I  will  tell  him  what 
you  want.  If  it  is  to  assist  some  poor  distressed  widow,  you 
may  depend  upon  it,  he  will  do  all  he  can  Afford,  for  he  is  a 
good  man  ;  his  worst  enemies  acknowledge  that." 

"No,  sir,  it  is  not  Mr.  Greele^,  that  I  am  to  go  and  see,  it 
is  another  gentleman  in  the  office  of  his  paper." 

"  Who  is  it  ?  What  is  his  name  ?  I  know  all  of  the  gen- 
t.emen  in  that  office ;  I  can  take  your  message  to  any  one  of 
them,  and  will  do  so  with  pleasure.  Is  it  Mr.  Dana  ?  he  is 
the  next  principal  editor  to  Mr.  Greeley." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  34*7 

"No,  that  is  not  the  name.  I  cannot  recollect  it,  now. 
But  he  is  one  of  the  editors." 

"  One  of  the  editors !  Why,  my  girl,  that  paper  has  a 
dozen  editors.  Perhaps,  it  is  one  of  the  assistants.  Is  it  Mr. 
Cleveland  ? — no— Mr.  Snow  ? — no — Mr.  Fry,  Mr.  Thayer  ? — 
no— Mr.  Ripley  ?— no— Mr.  Ottarson  ?" 

"  No,  I  think  not,  but  that  sounds  something  like  it." 

"Why,  my  dear  girl,  there  are  a  hundred  men,  editors, 
reporters,  compositors,  pressmen,  book-keepers,  and  all,  in  that 
office;  now,  how  are  you  going  to  find  one  that  you  do  not 
know,  and  say  you  have  forgotten  his  name  ?" 

"  May  be  I  shall  recollect  it  when  I  get  there.  Don't  you 
know  how  names  come  back  to  us  sometimes  ?  Do  you 
never  forget  names  ?" 

"  Often,  but  I  never  forget  faces.  I  have  seen  yours  before, 
but  I  have  forgotten  where,  just  as  you  have  forgotten  that 
gentleman's  name." 

"  Oh,  sir,  have  you  ?  well,  I  do  not  remember  your  face, 
but  it  does  seem  as  though  I  had  heard  your  voice,  and,  per 
haps,  if  the  room  was  not  so  dark,  I  should  know  you.  The 
lady  said,  I  must  keep  it  dark,  and  sleep  this  morning.  It  is 
no  wonder  that  I  should  forget  everything,  I  was  so  badly 
frightened  last  night." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  how  you  are  to  find  which  one  you  wish 
to  see,  among  so  many,  unless  you  can  recollect  his  name." 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  easy  enough,  sir.  I  will  ask  one  of  the 
gentlemen,  f  vim  sure  any  one  of  them  will  tell  me,  for  I  am 
sure  they  are  all  gentlemen,  real  gentlemen." 


348  HOT     CORN. 

"  I  do  not  see  what  it  is  that  you  are  to  inquire  for,  or  who, 
or  how  to  find  out  which  one,  or  anything  about  it." 

"  Oh,  sir,  it  is  the  one  that  wrote  that  little  story  about  her 
daughter." 

"Her  daughter?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  Mrs.  De  Vrai's  daughter." 

A  light  began  to  dawn  in  my  mind,  and  I  said  carelessly, 
u  her  daughter  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  her  daughter.  Little  Katy,  in  that  pretty  story 
of  Hot  Corn.  She  is  Little  Katy's  mother,  sir,  and  she  wants 
to  see  the  gentleman  that  wrote  that  story.  She  did  not 
know  his  name  until  yesterday.  She  thought  it  was  Mr. 
Greeley,  and  he  was  out  of  town,  and  she  had  never  seen  him 
since  Little  Katy  was  buried,  and  she  had  moved  away  from 
where  she  used  to  live,  without  letting  him  know  where  she 
was.  Yesterday  she  found  out  her  mistake,  and  sent  Phebe 
— you  laugh — do  you  know  Phebe?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  Phebe,  and  I  know  you  now ;  I  know 
you  for  a  kind-hearted,  good-natured  girl.  Your  name  is 
Agnes." 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,  has  Mrs.  Morgan  told  you." 

Now  the  reader  is  surprised.  Yes,  it  is  Mrs.  Morgan — 
Athalia.  It  was  she  that  faced  the  crowd  of  savages  that 
cried  "  drag  her  out."  It  was  she  that  took  poor  Agnes 
in  and  gave  up  her  own  bed,  and  nursed  and  watched  her  all 
night,  and  sent  for  a  physician  for  her.  It  was  Agnes,  the 
girl  that  you  have  seen  in  the  picture  with  the  negro  wood- 
sawyer,  and  at  his  home  when  Phebe  divided  her  bed  to  give 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  349 

the  poor  girl  a  lodging.     There  is  some  goodness  yet  in  human 
nature.     It  was  Phebe  that  Agnes  went  to  see,  while  nursing 
Mrs.  De  Vrai.     It  was  the  latter  for  whom  she  was  now  so 
anxious  to  get  up  out  of  her  sick  bed,  that  she  might  go  and 
tell  the  gentleman  who  wrote  the  story  of  "  Little  Katy,"  that 
Little  Katy's  mother  was  almost  dying  to  see  him.    It  was  by 
that  token  that  she  would  find  him. 
"  Did  Mrs.  Morgan  tell  you  my  name." 
" No,  she  has  not  told  me ;  you  told  me  that  a  long  time 
ago." 

"  Me,  sir  ?     Do  you  know  me,  sir  ?" 

"Yes,  better  than  you  do  me.  You  have  forgotten  the 
gentleman  that  stopped  you  in  the  street  one  night  with  old 
Peter?" 

"  Oh,  dear  me ;  yes,  no,  not  forgotten,  but  I  did  not  remem 
ber.  Oh,  oh,  how  singular  that  I  should  come  right  here  to 
this  house,  where  you  live,  and  this  dear  good  lady  lives.  Oh, 
I  wish  I  was  good ;  but  I  am  not  a  good  girl.  Oh,  sir,  has 
this  lady  told  you  how  bad  I  was  last  night  ?  But  it  was  not 
all  my  fault,  sir.  If  you  only  knew,  what  a  poor  unfortunate 
girl  I  have  been — but  sir,  upon  my  word,  I  have  not  been  what 
folks  call  a  bad  girl." 

"We  believe  you.  There,  don't  cry,  keep  yourself  quiet 
to-day,  and  we  hope  to  see  you  quite  smart  this  evening." 

"  Oh,  do  let  me  go  and  find  that  gentleman,  for  Mrs.  De 
Vrai.  If  you  only  knew  what  a  good  lady  she  is  now,  now 
she  don't  drink  any  more.  But  I  am  afraid  she  won't  live 
very  long.  She  has  got  a  dreadful  cough.  And  she  waa 


350  HOT     CORN. 

worse  last  night,  for  she  saw  somebody  in  the  street  yesterday 
— some  man — a  bad  man — I  believe  they  are  all  bad — no, 
no,  I  don't  mean  all — but  a  good  many  of  them." 

"  I  am  glad  that  the  sight  of  bad  men  in  the  street,  don't 
make  every  lady  sick  who  sees  one ;  if  it  did  we  might  turn 
the  whole  city  into  a  general  hospital.  But  what  about  that 
man  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what,  but  she  was  dreadful  'fraid  of  him,  and 
that  he  would  come  where  she  lives." 

"  So  he  did,  but  he  will  not  come  again,  soon." 

"Then  you  know  him,  too?" 

"  Yes.  And  that  is  not  all  I  know.  I  know  you  left  Mrs. 
De  Vrai's  last  night  about  half-past  nine  o'clock,  on  your  way 
home ;  that  soon  after  you  started  you  were  overtaken  by  a 
stout-built  gentleman,  with  black  hair  and  black  whiskers,  who 
said,  '  Good  evening,  Miss,  how  did  you  leave  Mrs.  De  Vrai, 
this  evening?'" 

"  Mercy  on  me,  his  exact  words.  Did  you  hear  them  ?  I 
am  sure  I  did  not  see  anybody  else  near  us  at  the  time." 

"  No,  I  did  not  hear  him — was  not  in  that  part  of  the  city." 

"  He  has  told  you  then.     I  am  sure  I  never  did." 

"  No,  neither  have  told  me." 

"What  then?" 

"  What  then  ?  why,  then  you  answered,  '  Oh,  sir,  are  you 
acquainted  with  Mrs.  De  Vrai?'" 

"  So  I  did ;  why  how  strange  that  you  should  know  it  all.''1 

"  And  then  he  began  to  talk  to  you  about  the  danger  of 
such  a  pretty  girl  going  home  alone — " 


LIFE    SCENES    IX     NEW    YORK.  351 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  then  he  offered  me  his  arm  ;  and,  and,  and  I 
thought  as  he  was  a  friend  of  Mrs.  De  Vrai's  1  might  take  it, 
and  he  said  so  many  pretty  things  t^at" 

"  That  you  were  deceived  by  a  villain,  and " 

"  Oh,  sir,  for  mercy  sake  don't  tell  all  before  this  dear  good 
lady,  she  who  saved  my  life  last  night.  Don't  tell  all." 

"  Why,  Agnes,  I  cannot  tell  all.  How  do  you  suppose  I 
know  all  I" 

"I  don't  know,  sir,  but  I  am  sure  you  do.  What  is  it 
makes  you  know  it ;  is  it  what  they  call  animal  magnetism, 
or  what  is  it  ?  Are  you  a  medium  ?" 

"  Y^s,  I  hope  so  ;  a  medium  of  glad  tidings,  that  will  bring 
great  joy  to  the  world.  But  not  a  spirit  medium,  as  they  are 
called." 

"  I  don't  know  then  how  you  know  all  about  me,  but  I  am 
sure  you  do." 

"  No,  I  do  not ;  I  never  saw  you  but  once  before,  in  my  life 
— never  heard  of  you  since  except  to  hear  your  name  men 
tioned  once  last  night,  and  that  you  had  been  at  Mrs.  De 
Vrai's  in  the  evening,  and  that  that  man  followed  you  from 
there,  and  I  guessed  his  wicked  purpose." 

"  Yes,  yes,  wicked  indeed." 

"  I  know  nothing  more.  I  do  not  ask  you  either  to  tell 
more,  yet  I  believe  it  would  be  a  relief  to  you  to  tell  it,  and 
that  it  will  be  a  burden  off  of  your  mind." 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  will,  it  will ;  but  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  not 
believe  me,  or  that  you  will  despise  me,  or  laugh  at  me  for 
being  so  simple,  to  be  so  deceived  by  a  stranger ;  but  theu 


352  HOT     CORN. 

how  could  I  tell  that  he  was  a  bad  man,  and  the  streets  sc 
dark  ?" 

Poor  child,  could  she  have  told  any  better  if  it  had  been 
as  light  as  noonday,  that  the  soft-spoken,  smiling  gentleman, 
with  his  sweet  words,  only  used  them  to  cover  up  a  heart  full 
of  bitterness  and  lying  deceit  ? 

"  And  so  he  told  you  he  was  an  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  De 
Vrai's,  a  friend,  and  then  he  offered  you  his  arm." 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  I  thought  I  might  take  it — that  it  was  so 
kind  of  him — for  he  told  me  that  he  was  just  going  in  to  see 
her  when  he  saw  a  lady  come  out,  and  he  thought  he  would 
step  along  and  ask  her  if  Mrs.  De  Vrai  was  up,  and  how  she 
was  this  evening,  and  if  she  had  gone  to  bed,  he  would  not 
disturb  her ;  perhaps  too,  he  might  be  of  service  to  a  friend  of 
hers,  by  walking  home  with  her.  And  then  he  asked  me  a 
great  many  questions  about  Mrs.  De  Vrai,  how  long  she  had 
lived  there,  and  who  lived  with  her,  and  who  else  lived  in  the 
house,  and  about  little  Sissee  ;  he  asked  such  a  heap  of  ques 
tions — if  she  was  pretty,  and  how  big  she  was,  and  where 
she  slept,  and  where  her  mother  slept,  and  oh !  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  many  things ;  and  then  he  told  me  how  he  knew  her 
in  Paris,  and  what  a  pretty  little  girl  she  had — that  was  Katy, 
sir, — and  then  I  told  him  that  Katy  was  dead,  and  then — but 
I  did  not  think  of  it  then — he  did  not  seem  a  bit  sorry  about 
it,  while  I  could  not  help  crying,  only  thinking  about  it — and 
that  she  should  die  just  then  too,  when  her  mother  was  going 
to  be  a  good  mother,  and  when  some  good  men  were  just 
going  to  begin  to  be  good  to  her.  Oh,  sir,  it  was  sad,  very 


LIFE    SCENES    IN    NEW    YORK.  363 

lad  for  her  to  die  then,  was  it  not  ?  But  I  suppose  it  is  all 
right — that  everything  is  for  the  best — Mr.  Pease  says  it  is. 
Do  you  know  Mr.  Pease — has  Mr.  Pease  ever  told  you  about 
her ;  has  he  told  you  how  Mrs.  De  Vrai  used  to  live  in  the 
Five  Points,  and  how  little  Katy  used  to  sell  hot  corn  ?" 

"  No,  nothing,  but  never  mind  that  now.  You  were  going 
to  tell  us  about  the  stranger  you  were  walking  and  chatting 
with  so  cosily." 

"  So  I  will." 

"Yes,  so  I  was.  But  when  I  talked  about  Little  Katy's 
death,  I  got  off  my  story.  Well,  sir,  we  walked  on  to 
wards  Broadway,  and  he  said  we  would  go  through  Canal 
street,  it  was  lighter  there,  and  so  it  was,  a  good  many  shops 
were  open,  and  all  the  places  where  folks  go  to  drink,  and 
the  ice  cream  saloons  were  open,  and  there  were  such  crowds 
of  pretty  girls  walking  arm  in  arm  with  nice  gentlemen,  look 
ing  so  proud  and  happy  with  their  beaux,  and  I  suppose  I 
looked  just  so,  too,  for  I  could  not  help  thinking  how  poor  I 
had  been,  and  now  how  well  dressed  I  was,  and  that  I  had  a 
beau,  too ;  and  when  I  saw  others  going  in  to  get  ice  cream 
and  good  suppers,  I  almost  wished — well,  I  did  feel  tempted, 
and  I  suppose  all  girls  do,  who  see  such  things ;  and  I  sup 
pose  he  must  have  guessed  what  I  was  thinking  of,  for  he 
said,  *  we  won't  go  into  any  of  those  public  places,  there  is  a 

nice  place  just  round  the  corner— real  genteel — it  is  the 

Hotel — we  will  go  there  and  have  some  ice  cream  and  good 
cool  ice  water — you  don't  drink  anything  else  ?'  said  he,  sort 
of  inquiringly — '  no,  sir,  not  now,  I  have  taken  the  pledge,' — - 
'  so  have  I,'  says  he — *  that  is  right — all  girls  ought  to  take  the 


354  HOT     CORN. 

pledge.'  So  we  turned  up  Broadway,  and  then  I  should  think 
just  round  one  corner,  but  I  don't  know  certain,  it  was  so 
light,  and  so  many  finely  dressed  gentlemen  round  the  door, 
and  one  of  them  said,  *  look  there,  Jim,  what  a  pretty  girl 
De  V.  has  got ;  and  that  made  me  blush,  and  feel  so  confused  I 
did  not  know  which  way  I  went,  and  so  I  clung  to  his  arm, 
for  I  thought  with  him  I  was  safe,  and  the  first  that  I  knew, 
we  were  standing  close  behind  some  ladies  and  gentlemen 
going  in  at  a  door — I  saw  '  private  door '  on  it,  and  did  not 
quite  like  that,  but  I  did  not  exactly  know  what  it  meant,  and 
hung  back  a  little,  and  then  he  spoke  so  sweetly,  and  said, 
*  don't  be  afraid,'  that  I  thought  it  was  all  right,  or  else  what 
would  so  many  ladies  and  gentlemen  go  there  for  ?  So  we 
went  in,  and  the  gentleman  says  to  the  nice-looking  waiter, 
in  his  clean  white  apron,  *  No.  C,  Bill.' 

"  *  No.  6  is  occupied,  sir,  but  I  will  give  you  another  room — 
all  right.' 

'  All  right.'  What  could  it  mean  ?  What  could  it  mean 
that  most  all  the  ladies  I  saw,  wore  thick,  close  veils,  so  that 
nobody  could  tell  who  they  were,  old  or  young,  ugly  or 
pretty  ?  But  I  had  not  much  time  to  think,  for  we  walked 
very  fast  through  the  passage,  between  I  don't  know  how 
many  little  private  supper  rooms,  and  pretty  soon  we  went 
into  one  ourselves.  There  was  a  table,  four  chairs  and  not 
much  else  in  the  room.  The  waiter  made  the  gas  light  burn 
bright  and  then  stood  a  moment  for  his  order. 

" '  What    shall    it    be,   Miss — I   do    not    recollect    your 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW     YORK.  ,  355 

;<  How  should  lie  ?  I  had  never  told  him,  he  never  knew  it, 
I  answered,  *  Brentnall.' 

"  *  Oh,  yes,  Miss  Brentnall,  what  shall  we  have  ?' " 

How  easy  poor,  weak  girls  are  flattered.  It  was  the  first 
time,  perhaps,  she  had  been  thus  addressed.  What  would  she 
have  ?  She  did  not  know. 

"  I  was  hungry,  real  hungry,  and,  so  I  toM  him,  when  he 
insisted  upon  it,  that  I  was  so ;  and  then  he  said,  how  fortu 
nate  that  two  hungry  persons  should  happen  to  meet,  and  that 
they  had  come  to  such  a  good  place,  where  they  could  get 
everything  that  the  heart  could  wish.  Did  I  like  crabs — soft 
crabs — then  we  would  have  a  supper  of  soft  crabs.  '  And  I 
say,  Bill,  while  they  are  cooking,  bring  some  ice  water,  ,a 
chicken  salad,  and,  iet  me  see,  you  drink  nothing  but  water, 
I  drink  no  liquor,  no  wine.  Are  you  fond  of  Heidsick  ?'  I 
could  not  tell — I  did  not  know  what  Heidsick  was,  only  that 
it  was  some  kind  of  drink  that  the  fellows  used  to  call  for  at 
that  house  where  you  saw  Peter  help  me  to  get  away  from. 
I  thought  it  was  some  kind  of  soda  water,  it  used  to  sparkle 
and  foam  so,  when  they  poured  it  out,  but  I  would  never  taste 
it  then ;  I  wish  I  had  not  now.  I  would  not,  only  that  the 
gentleman  said  it  was  like  water. 

" '  It  is  a  sweet,  pleasant  French  drink,'  said  he,  *  not  a  drop 
of  spirit  in  it — about  like  ginger  pop,  or  soda  water — you  will 
see  how  it  flies  when  I  draw  the  cork.' 

"  It  did  fly  and  foam  and  sparkle,  as  he  poured  it  out,  and 
looked  so  good.  He  handed  me  a  glass  with  such  a  smile, 
how  could  I  refuse  ?  How  could  I  know  I  should  break  my 


356  HOT     CORN. 

pledge  by  tasting  ?  It  tasted  so  good,  how  could  I  help  drink 
ing.  The  salad  was  very  good,  and  that  made  the  drink 
taste  better  still,  and  so  we  cat  and  sipped,  and  sipped  and  eat 
with  a  silver  fork.  It  was  delightful. 

"After  a  while  the  crabs  came,  and  then  we  eat  them — how 
good.  Was  it  any  wonder  that  so  many  come  here  to  eat, 
and  drink  '  Hiedsick  ?'  And  then  the  rooms  were  so  quiet. 
Still,  the  partitions  are  very  thin,  for  I  overheard  a  woman  in 
the  next  room  say  to  a  gentleman,  '  now  quit  that,  or  I  will 
tell  my  husband.  You  had  better  not  do  that  again.'  And 
then  I  heard  a  little  scuffle,  and  then  she  said,  *  Are  you  not 
ashamed  of  yourself?'  " 

Why  was  she  not  ashamed  of  herself?  She  would  have 
been  "  mortified  to  death  "  to  have  hei  husband  know  that 
she  was  in  that. room,  eating  late  suppers  and  drinking  wine, 
at  least,  once  a  week.  No  wonder  she  wore  a  thick  veil. 
She  was  yet  a  little  ashamed,  for  fashion's  sake,  anhamed  to  be 
seen  going  into  a  private  room,  at  ten  o'clock,  at  night,  with 
a  cavalier  servants.  She  is  on  a  quick  voyage  to  a  shameless 
harbor,  and  will  soon-  arrive  there — perhaps,  just  such  a  har 
bor  as  the  home  of  Elsie  Morgan,  where  the  rats  harbored 
with  her  in  the  same  cellar ;  or  the  home  of  little  Katy,  and 
her  mother  in  Cow  Bay.  She  would  have  been  ashamed  to 
have  her  husband  know,  that  under  pretence  of  going  to 
visit  a  sick  friend;  she  had  come  with  a  friend  to  sup  in  a 
"private  room,"  in  a  "fashionable  eating-house."  So,  too, 
would  that  husband  have  been  ashamed  to  have  his  wife 
know,  that  under  pretence  of  going  to  call  on  an  old  friend 


LIFE    SCENES    IN    NEW    YORK.  357 

at  the  hotel,  he  was  actually,  at  that  moment,  enjoying  hici- 
self  with  that  friend  in  the  next  room,  and  that  that  friend 
was  a  friend  of  his  wife,  too — the  fashionable  Mrs.  Smith, 
whose  husband  is  in  California,  toiling  to  earn  money,  which 
he  remits  to  her,  which  she  is  using  to  procure  a  divorce  from 
him,  that  she  may  marry  a  man  she  is  already  playing  the 
harlot  with,  and  whom  she  will  fool  in  the  same  way  she 
does  her  present  poor  simpleton  of  a  husband.  In  fact,  she 
is  already  fooling  her  paramour,  for  she  is  here  with  another 
man ;  and  that  man  is  the  husband  of  a  lady,  whom  she 
addresses  as  her  "  dear  friend."  Ah,  well !  Vest  la  vie  in 
New  York. 

"  So  we  sat  and  talked,  and  eat  and  drank,  a  long  time, 
for  time  went  merrily  on,  and  at  last  he  poured  out  the  last 
of  the  good  bottle,  and  we  were  just  going  to  drink  it  and 
go,  for  I  said,  *  I  must  go  home,  I  have  a  good  mile  to  go  yet/ 
and  he  said,  '  Oh,  I  will  see  you  safe  home.'  So  as  I  was 
lifting  the  glass,  he  caught  my  arm,  and  said,  '  Stop,  there  is 
a  fly  in  it ;'  and  he  took  my  glass  and  began  to  look  about  for 
something  to  take  the  fly  out. 

"  '  Oh,  this  will  do.'  And  he  took  a  little  folded  piece 
of  paper  out  of  his  pocket,  and  stooped  down  a  little  under 
the  table,  as  though  to  throw  it  on  the  floor." 

"  What  for  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  he  could  have  put  anything  in  the  glass  out 
of  that  piece  of  paper,  just  in  the  moment  he  had  it  ?  1 
thought  there  was  a  bitter  taste.  I  wish  I  had  thought  so  at 


358  HOT     CORN. 

first.  But  I  drank  it,  and  then  started  to  go  home.  When 
I  got  in  the  street,  I  did  not  know  which  way  I  went.  I 
should  have  gone  up  Broadway,  but  we  did  not.  Everything 
seemed  so  strange.  I  felt  as  though  I  could  fly  almost.  I 
never  felt  so  before.  I  clung  to  his  arm,  I  could  not  walk 
without  it.  I  felt  as  though  I  could  almost  hug  him.  And 
then  he  put  his  arm  around  my  waist;  I  am  sure  I  would  not 
have  let  him  do  that  if  I  had  known  what  I  was  about ;  and 
so  we  went  on,  I  do  not  know  how  far,  or  which  way,  but  it 
could  not  have  been  a  great  way,  and  then  he  went  up  to  a 
great  fine  house,  with  a  silver  plate  on  the  door,  with  a  name 
on  it  in  great  letters,  :t  was  Phillips  or  Brown,  or  something, 
only  one  name — just  as  though  they 'were  ashamed  of  the 
other,  or  else  did  not  want  to  be  known,  or  something.  I 
said,  don't  go  in  there,  what  will  the  folks  think  ?  and  he 
said,  '  Oh,  this  is  a  friend  of  mine  lives  here,  a  very  nice  lady, 
and  we  will  stop  and  rest  a  little  while,  and  then  I  will  go 
home  with  you.  I  guess  the  Hiedsick  has  got  in  your  head 
a  little,  and  we  will  go  in  here  and  wait  awhile,  till  you  feel 
better.'  Well,  I  did  feel  as  though  I  could  not  go  home, 
until  I  got  over  my  dizziness,  and  when  he  said,  he  knew  th% 
folks,  and  that  they  were  nice  people,  I  thought  I  would  go 
in  a  few  minutes.  So  he  rung  the  bell,  and  then  a  woman 
came  and  opened  a  little  blind  in  the  door,  so  that  she  could 
*ee  who  was  there,  and  then  he  said,  '  Open  the  door,  Leta,' 
and  then  she  said,  'Oh,  is  that  you  ?'  and  then^f  knew^he  wag 
acquainted  there,  and  in  we  went,  and  he  whispered  some- 


LIFE     SCEVES     IN     NEW    YORK.  359 

tiling  to  her,  and  then  she  called  the  servant  girl  and  told  her 
to  show  the  gentleman  up  to  No.  6.  There  it  was,  No.  6 
again.  And  there  it  was  again,  for  she  said,  '  there  is  a  gen 
tleman  and  lady  in  No.  C  now ;  I  will  give  them  another, 
all  right.'  I  am  sure,  I  never  shall  hear  that  word  again 
without  believing  it  means  all  wrong.  But  I  scarcely  knew 
right  from  wrong ;  I  just  held  to  his  arm,  and  went  wherever 
he  led  me.  It  was  a  very  nice  room  that  she  showed  us  in. 
There  were  beautiful  pictures  on  the  walls ;  I  could  not  see 
very  well  what  they  were,  but  I  thought  they  looked  like 
some  I  had  seen  once  before,  such  as  I  am  sure  never  should  be 
hung  up  anywhere.  There  was  a  great  mirror,  and  marble-top 
tables,  and  washstand,  a  very  rich  carpet,  and  such  a  splendid 
bed,  and  chairs  and  rocking  chairs,  one  of  which  I  sat  down 
in,  for  I  felt  so  tired  and  sort  of  sleepy ;  and  then  he  told  the 
servant  to  bring  in  some  water,  and  when  it  came,  he  poured 
out  a  tumbler  full,  but  I  do  believe  it  was  half  wine,  and  I 
drank  it  down,  and  then  I  felt,  oh,  I  never  can  tell  how  I  felt, 
or  what  happened  after  that ;  but  I  know  more  happened, 
and  that  more  was — was — what  I  never  can  tell." 
9  "  Villain,  black-hearted  villain ;  who  laid  his  snares  for  a 
poor,  simple-hearted  girl,  to  work  her  ruin.  I  wonder  that 
you  ever  got  away,  ever  got  out  >f  that  house.  How  did  you 
doit?" 

"  When  I  came  to  a  little,  I  in  down  stairs  as  fast  as  I 
could  go,  andrhe  ran  after  me,  and  cried,  '  Stop  her,'  and  two 
other  women  ran  out  in  the  hall  to  do  it,  but  just  then  the 


360  HOT     CORN. 

door  was  opened,  ana  two  gentlemen  were  going  out,  and  I  ran 
right  into  the  arms  of  one  of  them,  and  he  carried  me  clear 
out,  in  spite  of  them,  and  then  the  other  one  said,  '  Let  her 
go,  she  is  drunk — now  run.'  I  did  run  and  they  hallooed, 
and  then  the  boys  took  after  me,  and,  oh,  dear,  you  know  the 
rest" 


LIPB     SCENES     IN     NEW     FORK.  861 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE      INTE L LI G E N C E      OFFICE. AGNES. 

"All  things  are  pare  to  those  who  are  pure." 
"Wisdom  and  goodness  to  the  vile  seem  vile." 

PERHAPS  some  of  my  readers  Lave  been  sufficiently  inter 
ested  to  inquire,  "  Who  is  Agnes,  and  what  of  her  ?"  Perhaps 
there  may  be  some,  who,  like  Mrs.  McTravers,  think  she  is 
not  a  .proper  character  to  introduce  into  a  respectable  family, 
coming  as  she  did  from  a  house  which  gives  an  air  of  taint, 
spoiled,  lost,  ruined,  to  every  character  that  is  found  within 
its  walls.  I  am  aware  that  there  is  room  for  suspicion,  but 
suspicion  is  not  proof.  In  the  case  of  Athalia,  her  acknow 
ledged  sin  is  no  more  proof  of  moral  turpitude  than  any  other 
act  of  a  deranged  mind.  A  lunatic  may  kill,  yet  it  is  not  murder. 
A  drunken  husband  may  beat  his  loving  wife,  and  love  her 
Btilfc.  It  was  not  the  man  who  struck  the  blow,  it  was  the 
demon  Rum  !  It  was  not  Athalia  who  lost  her  virtue,  it  was 
the  worse  than  demon  who  robbed  her — intoxicated  her — 
destroyed  her  reason — enslaved  her  mind — but  he  did  not, 
could  not,  destroy  her  virtuous,  benevolent  heart.  Her 
conduct  toward  Agnes,  is  alone  sufficient  to  prove  this.  And 
if  she  had  known  as  much  as  I  did  of  Agnes,  that  there  might 
be  some  ground  of  suspicion  against  her,  it  would  have  made 

16 


362  .  HOT     COK3T. 

no  odds ;  she  would  have  taken  her  in  and  taken  care  of  hei 
in  the  same  way,  if  she  had  known  that  she  was  a  great 
sinner;  that  is  the  true  way  to  work  reformation  ;  and  then 
she  would  have  said,  "  Go,  daughter,  and  sin  no  more." 

But  she  knew  nothing  against  Agnes ;  even  after  I  had  told 
her  of  the  trunk,  she  said,  all  may  yet  be  right.  She  was 
unwilling  to  believe  that  all  was  wrong.  How  triumphantly 
she  met  me  as  I  came  home  in  the  evening — how  a  woman 
does  love  to  triumph  over  us  in  a  good  cause,  proving  herself 
what  she  is  in  all  the  purest  qualities  of  the  heart, — our 
superior. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  Athalia.  "  I  knew  there  had  beeD 
some  base  deception,  some  wickedness  practiced  towards  tha* 
poor  girl  to  inveigle  her  into  that  house.  Come  up  stairs,  and 
you  shall  hear  her  story  from  her  own  lips ;  she  is  quite  smart 
now,  and  able  to  sit  up  and  talk,  and  looks  so  pretty — she  is 
pretty,  and  that  has  been  the  great  cause  of  her  trouble.  But 
she  is  a  good  girl ;  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  about  her  to 
day,  besides  what  she  has  told  me.  Phebe  and  Peter,  have 
both  been  here,  and  such  a  meeting,  oh !  it  would  have  done 
your  heart  good  to  have  been  here,  and  to  see  these  poor 
blacks'  conduct  towards  this  girl,  after  I  had  told  them  the 
story  of  her  adventures  last  evening :  they  hugged  her,  and 
kissed  her  with  as  much  affection  as  though  she  had  been  one 
of  their  own  ;  and  then  Peter  went  to  see  the  lady  where  she 
had  been  living,  at  the  place  he  got  for  her,  the  next  day 
after  your  first  interview  with  her,  and  the  lady  was  terribly 
alarmed  about  the  poor  girl,  and  so  she  would  not  let  Peter 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  303 

come  back  until  she  had  the  carriage  up,  and  then  she  took 
him  in — only  to  think,  such  a  sweet,  nice,  pretty  lady  did  not 
feel  herself  in  the  least  disgraced  to  -ride  with  a  poor,  old, 
negro  wood-sawyer  in  her  fine  carriage,  to  visit  a  poor  sick 
servant  girl.  And  so  she  came,  and  such  a  time  !  why,  if  she 
had  been  her  own  child,  she  could  not  have  been  more 
affectionate.  And  then  Agnes  told  us  her  story,  and  then  I 
told  Mrs.  Meltrand,  that  is  her  name,  about  Mrs.  De  Vrai,  and 
how  that  same  man,  who  treated  Agnes  so  badly,  tried  to  steal 
Mrs.  De  Vrai's  little  girl,  and  then  she  said,  '  how  singular,' 
and  then  of  course  I  said,  what  is  so  singular  ?" 

"  Ah  me,  it  is  a  long  story,  and  would  not  interesryou,  but 
I  was  robbed  of  a  dear  little  girl,  fifteen  years  ago,  in  England, 
by  just  such  a  man,  in  just  the  same  way,  but  it  could  not 
have  been  this  man,  his  name  was  Brentnall." 

"  Brentnall,  why  that  is  my  name,"  said  Agnes. 

"  Your  name,  why  you  never  told  me  that  before." 
"  No,  ma'am,  you  never  asked  me,  and  I  did  not  suppose  that 
you  cared  to  know  anything  about  me,  only  that  I  was  a 
good  girl,  and  did  your  work  well,  and  answered  to  the  name 
of  Agnes." 

True.  How  little  interest  we  all  take  in  our  servants; 
they  come  and  go  and  we  never  know  that  they  have  any 
name  but  one  that  is  most  convenient  to  call  them  by,  and 
we  take  no  interest  in  them,  hardly  enough  to  know  that 
they  possess  souls  as  precious  as  our  own. 

"  And  so,  your  name  is  Brentnall,  what  was  your  father's 
name  ?" 


364  HOT     CORN. 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am,  as  I  ever  had  any,  or  mother  either." 

"  But  you  must  have  had  both." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  suppose  I  must,  to  have  been  born,  but  I  mean 
I  never  saw  any." 

"  Where  did  you  live,  and  who  brought  you  up  ?" 

"  I  lived  with  an  uncle,  near  Belfast,  and  came  over  with 
him  and  his  family,  and  every  one  of  them  died  of  ship  fevei 
on  the  voyage,  and  when  I  landed  here  in  this  great  city,  I 
was  utterly  alone,  and  almost  penniless.  Oh  dear  !" 

"  And  then  Mrs.  Meltrand,  said,  *  Oh  dear,'  and  she  went 
away  feeling  sad.  I  do  wish  I  knew  what  it  could  be  in  that 
name  that  made  her  feel  so  sad.  Some  reminiscence  con 
nected  with  the  loss  of  her  little  girl,  I  suppose.  It  is  very 
sad,  to  lose  a  child  by  death,  it  must  be  very  much  more  sad 
to  have  one  stolen  away,  and  never  know  what  becomes  of  it, 
whether  dead  or  alive ;  and  if  the  mother  should  meet  her 
own  child  in  the  street  not  to  know  it ;  but  dear  me,  how  I  am 
running  on  while  you  are  eating  your  supper,  as  though  you 
had  nothing  to  think  of  but  the  things  that  interest  me  so 
much.  But  if  you  have  been  able  to  eat  while  I  have  been 
talking,  come  up  to  my  room  and  see  my  protege  and  hear 
her  story." 

So  we  went  up,  and  found  the  invalid  almost  recovered, 
looking  so  sweet,  for  she  looked  grateful,  and  that,  when  it 
beams  out  like  the  sunlight,  will  make  any  face  look  beautiful. 

"  I  told  you,"  said  Mrs.  Morgan,  "  about  her  landing  here 
penniless  and  alone,  and  I  want  she  should  tell  you — there 
now,  there  is  the  bell,  how  I  do  hope  that  is  uncle— yes  it  is 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  365 

— it  is ;  do  you  hear  him  talking  to  Bridget  ?  that  is  his  step, 
now — " 

Now  the  door  opens,  and  now  she  is  in  his  arras,  and  now 
there  are  more  questions  than  answers : — 

"  When  did  he  arrive?  How  did  he  find  things  out  West. 
Has  he  been  to  supper  ?  What  is  the  news  ?" 

"  Now  you  are  a  perfect  woman,  you  are  enough  to  confuse 
a  whirlwind.  Sit  down,  and  be  quiet,  and  I  will  tell  you  all 
that  you  need  to  know.  But  first  tell  me  who  is  this  young 
lady;  you  forgot  to  introduce  me," 

"  So  I  did,  but  of  course  she  knows  by  this  time  that  you 
are  my  uncle,  and  you  will  know  directly  all  about  her,  for 
she  was  just  going  to  tell  part  of  her  story,  and  I  shall  tell 
the  rest  before  you  go  to  bed. 

"I  will  warrant  that.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear 
mine,  and  where  I  have  been  since  I  arrived." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  do  tell  me,  and  why  you  did  not  come  right 
home  ?" 

"I  have  been  to  jail,  since  I  arrived;  locked  up  in  the 
criminal  cells.  It  is  a  little  singular  too,  how  I  got  there 
It  is  all  owing  to  the  newspapers." 

".Owing  to  the  newspapers,  uncle,  I  do  not  understand  how 
the  papers  should  get  you  in  prison." 

"Very  well  I  do.  I  saw  an  item  in  one  of  them  this 
evening,  about  the  arrest  of  a  person  whose  name  struck  me 
very  forcibly  as  being  that  of  a  man  whom  I  once  knew  iu 
Europe,  and  who  I  was  very  anxious  to  see,  for  I  felt  the 
deepest  interest  to  know  what  had  become  of  his  wife.  For 


366  HOT     CORN. 

him  I  cared  nothing,  I  knew  he  was  a  villain,  and  felt  rejoiced 
to  think  he  had  met  his  deserts  at  last ;  but  his  wife  was  a 
sweet  good  woman,  a  victim  of  unfortunate  circumstances  all 
through  her  life,  and  when  I  saw  her  last  I  had  reason  to  fear 
that  she  was  falling  into  a  course  adopted  by  many,  many 
others,  of  drowning  sorrow  in  wine.  But  I  shall  not  tell  my 
story  now ;  I  will  sit  down  and  hear  yours." 

"  Well  then,  Agnes,  tell  what  you  did  after  landing." 

At  the  sound  of  her  name,  Mr.  Lovetree  gave  a  little  start, 
and  said,  "Agnes!  oh,  pshaw  !"  and  sunk  back  again  in  his 
easy  chair,  as  though  he  had  been  affected  by  the  name,  and 
thought  it  very  foolish  that  he  had  been  so.  Agnes,  said : 
"Indeed,  ma'am,  I  don't  think  the  gentlemen  will  be  at  all 
interested  to  hear  anything  about  me." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  have  promised  them." 

"  Well,  then,  after  my  uncle  died,  and  all  my  friends,  I  felt 
dreadful ;  it  is  dreadful  for  a  young  girl  to  be  left  all  alone  in 
a  strange  country.  So  when  the  ship  landed,  or  rather  when 
she  came  to  anchor,  the  people  from  shore  came  aboard,  and 
I  saw  how  many  of  the  poor  emigrants  had  friends  to  wel 
come  them,  and  that  I  had  none  ;  it  was  then  that  I  felt  the 
dreadful  loneliness  of  rny  situation,  and  I  sat  down  and  cried, 
for  I  could  not  help  it,  and  then  a  man  came  and  spoke  to 
me  very  pleasantly,  and  asked  me  where  I  wanted  to  go,  and 
all  about  it,  and  then  I  told  him  all  my  troubles,  and  then  he 
said  it  was  the  luckiest  thing  in  the  world  that  I  had  met 
with  him,  for  he  was  an  emigrant  agent,  appointed  by  law, 
and  he  would  take  charge  of  me  and  take  me  ashore  to  a 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  867 

boarding-house,  and  do  everything  for  me.  And  then  he 
asked  me  how  much  money  I  had,  and  I  told  him  that  I  had 
but  a  few  shillings,  of  my  own,  but  that  I  had  three  gold 
sovereigns  that  were  my  uncle's — he  had  more,  a  great  deal 
more,  when  he,  died,  but  somebody  must  have  taken  it  away 
— and  that  was  all  I  had  in  the  world  besides  their  chests  of 
clothes  and  things.  And  then  he  said,  that  it  was  very  lucky 
for  me  that  I  had  that,  for  he  would  have  to  pay  half  a 
guinea  head-money  for  each  passenger,  no  matter  how  many 
were  dead,  and  then  he  would  have  to  pay  the  custom-house 
duty,  and  the  wharfage  and  the  cartage,  and  the  week  in 
advance  for  the  board,  and  that  would  take  all  the  money 
and  more  too,  but  he  would  pay  that  and  hold  the  things 
until  I  could  pay  him  back.  So  I  gave  him  the  money,  and 
he  got  the  chests,  all  but  my  trunk,  I  would  keep  that,  and 
took  them  ashore,  and  took  me  to  a  boarding-house,  and  that 
was  the  last  I  ever  saw  of  him,  or  the  money  or  chests  either, 
he  had  robbed  me  of  all  of  my  poor  uncle's  things,  and  my 
three  gold  sovereigns;  so  the  landlady  said,  and  he  never 
paid  her  a  cent  of  board.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do ;  I  was 
willing  to  work,  but  how  should  I  find  a  place.  The  land 
lady  said,  I  must  go  to  the  '  Intelligence  office.'  I  thought  I 
should  like  to  go  somewhere  to  get  intelligence  of  the  man 
who  had  run  away  with  my  things,  or  any  other  intelligence 
that  would  be  of  any  benefit  to  a  poor  stranger  in  this  great 
Babel  of  a  city.  And  I  asked  her  to  tell  me  the  way  to  the 
'  Intelligence  office,'  and  I  went  there.  It  was  a  great  room, 
divided  into  two  parts ;  one  was  full  of  men,  and  the  other 


368  HOT     CORN. 

of  girls,  sitting  on  long  benches.  I  went  in  and  sat  down 
among  them,  and  I  suppose,  I  looked  sad — I  felt  so,  and  I 
felt  worse  when  I  heard  some  of  the  girls  snickering,  and 
overheard  them  say,  '  there  is  a  green  one.'  If  that  was  an 
*  Intelligence  '  office,  I  thought  it  a  very  queer  way  of  giving 
it  to  one  so  much  in  need  of  it  as  I  was.  After  a  while,  one 
of  the  girls  came  and  sat  down  by  me,  and  spoke  kindly,  and 
asked  where  I  came  from,  and  a.  good  many  questions ;  I 
was  almost  afraid  to  answer  her,  for  fear  that  she  was  *  an 
emigrant  agent,'  too,  and  had  some  plan  to  cheat  me,  or  prac 
tice  some  deception,  but  I  became  convinced  in  a  little  while 
that  she  meant  kindly ;  and  then  I  told  her  all  about  myself. 
Then,  she  said,  that  I  must  get  my  name  registered.  I  did 
not  know  what  that  was  for,  but  I  went  up  to  the  book 
keeper,  and  told  him  my  name,  and  age,  and  where  I  came 
from,  and  what  I  could  do,  and  he  wrote  it  all  down  in  a 
book  and  then  told  me  to  give  him  half  a  dollar,  and  when 
I  got  a  place  I  must  give  him  another  one ;  I  did  not  know 
what  for ;  he  gave  me  no  intelligence  about  how  I  was  to  get 
a  place,  but  he  told  me  to  go  and  sit  down  again.  So  I  did, 
all  that  day  and  all  the  three  next  days,  waiting  for  some 
body  to  pick  me  out  of  the  lot.  Every  hour,  somebody  came 
and  looked  over  all  the  girls,  for  all  the  world  just  as  I  have 
seen  the  people  do  in  the  pig-market,  at  an  Irish  fair,  until 
they  found  one  that  would  suit.  One  objected  to  me 
because  I  was  *  green ;'  another,  because  I  had  never  been  at 
service  in  this  country;  another,  because  I  had  no  recom 
mend;  and  then  a  girj  whispered  to  me,  and  told  me  she 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK. 

knew  a  man  who  would  write  me  just  as  many  recommends 
as  I  wanted,  for  a  shilling  a  piece.  If  that  is  the  way  recom 
mends  are  made,  I  don't  see  what  good  they  are.  At  last, 
after  being  looked  over  day  after  day,  like  a  lot  of  damaged 
goods,  a  lady,  at  least,  I  thought  she  was  a  lady,  selected  me 
the  very  first  one,  and  for  the  very  reason  that  twenty  others 
had  rejected  me — because  I  was  too  good-looking.  When  she 
found  that  I  had  no  friends  in  this  country,  and  no  father  or 
mother  in  the  world,  she  seemed  still  more  anxious  to  have 
me,  which  I  thought  so  kind  of  her,  and  then  she  told  me 
that  the  work  would  be  very  light,  only  some  rooms  to  take 
care  of,  and  wait  upon  company  a  little,  and  she  knew  1 
should  like  the  place ;  I  thought  I  should  ;  I  did  at  first,  but, 
I  don't  want  to  tell,  before  the  gentlemen,  why  I  did  not  like 
to  live  there  ;  this  one  knows  already." 

"  Well,  well,  you  need  not  tell,  we  understand  all  about  it. 
You  have  been  treated  just  as  a  great  many  poor  girls  with 
out  friends  have  been  treated  before  in  this  city ;  and  you  got 
just  as  much  intelligence,  and  just  as  much  profit  from 
your  application  to  the  '  Intelligence  office,'  as  a  great  many 
others  have  done  before  you." 

Now,  it  was  Athalia's  turn  to  tell  her  uncle  all  that  she 
knew  about  Agnes,  and  then  he  told  about  his  visit  to  the 
prison. 

" I  found,"  said  he,  "the  very  man  I  expected,  or  rather 
hoped,  it  might  be,  and  it  is  well  that  I  acted  upon  the 
impulse  of  the  moment,  for  if  I  had  not,  I  should  have  been 
too  late.  It  is  the  doctor's  opinion,  that  he  will  ot  live  till 

16* 


370  HOT     CORN. 

morning.  It  seems  that  he  got  into  some  difficulty  with  tb« 
police  last  night,  and  one  of  them,  to  prevent  him  from  stab 
bing  another  man,  broke  his  arm." 

There  was  a  little  start  of  surprise  on  my  part,  and  that  of 
Mrs.  Morgan ;  but  we  made  no  interruption,  and  Lovetree  went 
on  with  his  story.  We  thought,  though,  we  could  not  help 
that. 

"  I  expect  he  had  been  drinking  hard,  for  he  tore  off  the 
bandage  from  his  arm  in  the  night,  and  when  the  keeper 
opened  his  cell  this  morning,  he  found  him  almost  dead  with 
loss  of  blood  and  vital  prostration.  He  cannot  live.  They 
had  aroused  him,  and  I  found  him  quite  rational  when  I  went 
in,  and  was  immediately  placed  beyond  all  doubt  as  to  the 
identity  of  the  man,  for  he  called  me  by  name  the  moment 
he  saw  me." 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  said  he,  "I  can  trust  you, 
and  I  want  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  before  I  die.  My 
wife  and  child — my  last  one — are  in  this  city,  and  when  I  am 
gone,  I  want  you  to  go  and  see  her,  and  tell  her,  that  I  shall 
never  trouble  her  any  more ;  she  will  be  glad  to  hear  it,  for 
she  saw  me  last  night,  and  I  left  the  old  lady  somewhat  in  a 
fright.  I  cannot  tell  you  the  exact  number,  but  I  can  tell  you 
so  that  you  can  find  the  house  easy  enough.  It  is  in  W — 
street." 

"  Oh,  dear,  I  cannot  stand  it  any  longer,"  said  Mrs. 
Morgan. 

u  Cannot  stand  it  ?  I  don't  see  anything  that  you  cannot 
stand.  You  surprise  me." 


LITE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  37 1 

"Not  half  as  much  as  you  surprise  us.  We  know  all 
about  it.  It  was  him,"  and  she  pointed  to  me,  "  that  knocked 
the  ruffian  down ;  it  was  him  that  he  was  about  to  stab  when 
the  watchman  broke  his  arm;  and  it  is  she,  uncle,  Mrs.  De 
Vrai,  his  wife,  who  is  the  mother  of  Little  Katy ;  now,  you 
know  all  about  it ;  we  know  all  about  it." 

"  No,  not  all,  for  he  told  me,  that  he  believed  his  other  wife 
was  in  this  city,  also,  married  here,  and  he  wanted  that  I 
should  look  her  up,  too;  and  tell  her  where,  perhaps,  she 
may  find  her  child." 

"  Tell  her,"  said  he,  "  that  I  left  it  with  my  brother,  near 
Belfast,  an  Irish  farmer,  by  the  name  of  William  Brentnall." 

"  William  Brentnall !"  said  Agnes,  her  eyes  opening  with 
wild  surprise. 

"I  do  think,"  said  Mr.  Lovetree,  "that  I  have  lost  my 
senses,  or  else  some  of  the  rest  of  you  have.  First,  one,  and 
then  the  other,  fairly  screams  out  some  exclamation  as 
though  I  were  a  conjurer,  and  you  could  not  comprehend 
my  words  or  actions.  Have  you  done  now,  shall  I  go  on  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  uncle ;  I  am  dying  with  curiosity,  and  as  for 
Agnes,  she  looks  the  very  picture  of  wonder." 

"Indeed  I  feel  so." 

"  Well,  I  don't  understand  why,  but  I  suppose  I  might  as 
well  proceed.  'Tell  her,'  said  he,  'that  he  is  well  known 
and  easily  found,  and  that  I  left  the  child  with  him,  telling 
him  that  it  was  mine,  and  that  its  mother  was  dead.'  Then 
I  was  a  little  surprised,  for  I  thought  his  name  was  De  Vrai, 
*  but  that,'  he  said,  '  was  an  assumed  one,  the  name  by  which 


372  HOT     CORtf. 

he  married  the  woman  that  I  knew,  because  he  dared  not 
marry  her  by  his  own  name.  Then,  I  asked  him  what  was 
her  name,  who  I  should  look  for,  and  who  she  should  inquire 
for,  to  find  her  child  ?  Then  he  took  a  little  card  out  of  his 
pocket,  as  though  he  would  write  her  name,  and  then  he 
seemed  to  recollect  his  broken  arm,  and  said,  with  a  groan, 

*  my  writing  d.vs  are  over,  and  all  my  days  nearly.'     Then,  he 
told  me,  to  take  the  card  and  write,  and  so  I  did,  here  it  is — 

*  this  is  the  mother's  name,  and  this  is  her  daughter's,  upon 
the  truth  of  a  dying  man — tell  her  so,  beg  her  to  forgive 
and  forget  the  dead.'  " 

"  What  are  the  names  ?    Do  tell  us,  uncle." 

"  Mrs.  Meltrand — Agnes  Brentnall." 

Now  there  were  at  least  two  screams  and  one,  "  Oh  how 
wonderful !" 

"  Then  Agnes  said,  "  Mrs.  Meltrand  my  mother  ! — that  is 
wonderful!" 

Then  Mr.  Love^ree  looked  surprised ;  all  around  him  seemed 
to  be  a  mass  of  mystery.  Others  began  to  see  through  it,  he 
was  now  in  the  dark. 

Athalia  explained.  There  was  one  point  that  she  was  not 
quite  clear  upon,  and  she  asked  her  uncle  if  Agnes  was  really 
De  Vrai's  daughter,  or  only  Mrs.  Meltrand's  ? 

"  His  own.  Mrs.  Meltrand,  was  his  lawful  wife  when  he 
married  Mrs.  De  Vrai." 

"  Oh  my  God !  then  Agnes  is  his  own  child." 

None  spoke — what  each  thought  sent  a  thrill  of  icy  horror  to 
every  heart.  All  groaned  or  wept,  none  could  speak.  There 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  373 

are  moments  in  life  of  speechless  agony,  when  the  mind  is 
completely  horrified,  when  anything  that  breaks  the  silence 
comes  as  a  relief.  It  came  now  in  the  sound  of  the  door 
bell.  It  was  a  messenger  to  Mr.  Lovetree.  It  brought  relief 
to  aching  minds.  It  was  very  short.  It  only  said,  "he  is 
dead."  It  Js  perhaps  wrong  to  rejoice  at  the  death  of  a  fellow 
creature,  but  we  could  not  feel  regret. 

After  the  first  flush  of  excitement  was  over,  a  note  was 
written  to  Agnes's  mother,  simply  stating  that  if  she  would 
call  at  Mrs.  Morgan's  at  her  earliest  convenience,  she  would 
meet  with  an  individual  who  could  tell  her  of  her  long-lost 
daughter.  She  made  it  convenient  to  come  immediately, 
though  it  was  then  ten  o'clock  at  night. 

It  is  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that  she  could  keep  away 
till  morning,  particularly  as  she  had  heard  a  word  or  two  at 
her  first  visit  which  left  her  mind  uneasy. 

I  drop  the  curtain  upon  the  scene  when  the  mothev 
acknowledges  and  receives  to  her  arms  her  long-lost  daughter, 
while  I  go  to  carry  comfort  to  the  heart  of  Mrs.  De  Vrai,  the 
ill-treated  wife — the  widow  of  a  villain — the  mother  of  his 
child,  soon  to  be  an  orphan. 

What  a  load  it  lifted  from  her  crushed  heart,  when  I  told 
her  those  three  little  words — "  he  is  dead." 
"Then  my  child  will  be  safe,  at  least  from  his  evil  influ 
ences." 

What  a  dreadful  thing  it  is  for  a  wife  to  feel  upon  the 
death  of  her  husband  that  she  is  safe  herself,  that  her  child  is 
safe,  more  safe  among  strangers  than  with  its  own  father, 


3  74  HOT     CORN. 

Why  should  she  feel  so?  Why  does  she  feel  so?  The 
answer  is  still  shorter  than  that  which  gave  her  relief — which 
told  her  that  her  child's  father  was  dead.  That  was  composed 
of  three  words,  this  of  one.  That  one  word  is — Rum  ! ! 

It  was  that  which  made  a  villain  of  him,  a  double  villain  to 
two  wives  and  the  children  of  both.  It  was  that  which  made 
him  attempt  the  greatest  wrong  that  a  father  can  do  to  his 
own  child.  Poor  Agnes ! 

It  was  that  which  drove  Mrs.  De  Vrai  step  by  step  from  the 
paths  of  peaceful,  youthful  innocence,  comfort  and  affluence,  to 
— but  I  will  not  name  the  intermediate  steps — to  that  wretched 
abode  where  the  little  girl  who  sold  Hot  Corn,  and  slept  in 
the  rain  upon  the  cold  stones,  breathed  her  pure  life  away  in 
prayers  to  that  mother  not  to  drink  any  more  of  that  soul 
and  body  destroying  rum. 

It  was  that  mother,  who,  upon  her  death  bed,  prayed  me 
to  tell  the  world  the  fruits  that  the  traffic  in  rum  produces. 
"Tell  them  to  look  at  me,  at  my  history,  or  a  brief  view  of 
it;  its  details  would  fill  a  volume.  Tell  mothers  to  watch 
their  daughters.  Tell  those  who  bring  up  children  in  hotels 
and  public  houses,  that  they  are  rearing  their  daughters  to 
one  chance  of  virtue,  against  ten  of  sin  and  woe.  My  mother 
was  left  early  a  widow,  with  a  competence  to  raise  her  two 
daughters  "  at  home,"  yet  she  seemed  to  delight  in  the  excite 
ment  incident  to  a  life  in  a  hotel  or  great  boarding-house. 
As  children,  we  were  petted  and  spoiled ;  as  misses,  we 
learned  all  that  girls  usually  learn  in  such  boarding-schools 
as  fashionable  mothers  send  them  to ;  as  young  ladies,  we 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  375 

were  the  flattered  of  fops  and  roues,  and  our  mother  allowed 
us  to  be  in  a  constant  flirtation  at  home,  or  out  every  night  to 
parties,  balls,  soirees,  theatres,  concerts,  and  then  to  saloons, 
late  suppers,  and  wines,  and — oh  dear ! — what  if  I  had  had  a 
home  and  a  mother  to  keep  me  out  of  temptation  ;  but  I  had 
not,  and  I  met  with  the  fate  almost  inevitable. 

"  Among  the  boarders  at  the  hotel,  where  we  stopped  at 
Saratoga,  was  an  Englishman,  who  claimed,  and  I  believe 
rightly,  to  be  one  of  the  nobility,  for  he  wrote  his  name,  Sir 

Charles  R ,  and  had  a  well-known  coat  of  arms  upon  his 

seal,  which  he  used  publicly.  Of  course,  I  was  flattered, 
proud,  vain  of  the  attentions  of  an  English  nobleman,  young, 
handsome,  full  of  money,  and  ardent  in  his  professions  of 
love,  which  I  have  no  reason  to  think  of  otherwise  than  as 
sincere ;  I  was  seventeen,  tall,  straight,  handsome  form,  face, 
and  figure,  and  always  dressed  with  taste.  My  eyes  were 
black ;  cheeks,  rosy ;  and  hair  like  the  wing  of  a  crow.  1 
was  well  bred,  and  well  read,  and  could  talk  and  sing  to  cap 
tivate.  So  could  he,  and  we  were  both  equally  affected. 
When  we  left  the  Springs,  he  came  with  us  to  New  York, 
and  put  up  at  the  same  hotel.  Then  I  was  innocent.  Oh, 
mothers !  mothers !  how  long  can  you  answer  for  the  inno 
cence  of  your  daughters  who  go  to  fashionable  eating  and 
drinking  saloons,  and  leave  them  after  midnight,  with  their 
young  blood  on  fire,  and  in  such  a  state  of  mind  that  they 
hardly  know  whether  they  go  home  to  rest  in  their  own 
room,  or  in  some  of  the  thousand  traps  for  the  unwary,  in 
almost  every  street  in  the  city  ? 


376  HOT     CORN. 

"  Oh,  mothers,  mothers,  every  one. 

With  daughters  free  from  sin, 
How  can  you  look  so  coldly  on 

The  ways  from  virtue  daughters  win  ? 

"Late  suppers  and  wines,  and  constantly  seeing  others,  wbc 
should  set  the  young  better  examples,  going  the  road  that 
ruins  virtue,  had  its  effect.  If  I  had  been  properly  restrained 
by  my  mother,  had  been  kept  at  home  nights,  and  nevei 
learned  to  sip  fashionable  intoxicating  drinks,  my  mothoi 
would  not  have  mourned  '  a  girl  lost.* 

"A  few  months  after  my  first  acquaintance  with  Sir 
Charles,  I  was  living  with  him  in  a  richly  furnished  house,  in 
Eighteenth  street,  shamelessly  passing  as  his  wife,  and 
treated  as  such  by  our  acquaintance,  although  they  knew 
that  I  was  not.  It  was  here  that  Katy  was  born,  and 
received  her  first  impressions  of  home  and  a  fond  father'* 
love.  Here  I  lived  away  my  young  womanhood  in  fashiona 
ble  dissipation,  and  then  Sir  Charles  died  suddenly,  anu 
without  a  will.  He  had  always  said,  he  would  make  a  will, 
and  give  his  vast  property  to  me  and  our  child.  But  he  put 
it  off,  as  many  others  do,  one  day  too  long.  Why  do  men 
defer  this  duty?  A  sacred  duty  to  those  they  leave  behind 
them,  of  their  own  flesh  and  blood.  I  knew,  as  his  wife,  I 
had  rights ;  and  I  went  to  England  to  try  and  obtain  them. 
I  left  my  elegantly  furnished  house,  which  cost,  I  don't  know 
how  many  thousand  dollars  to  furnish,  for  my  mother  and 
my  sister,  and  an  uncle  to  occupy  while  I  was  gone.  I  found 
all  the  property  in  the  hands  of  Sir  Charles's  brother,  and  he 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  377 

was  unwilling  to  give  up  the  share  that  rightfully  belonged  to 
his  wife  and  child,  because  he  said,  we  could  not  recover  it  by 
law.  He  did  not  say  why,  my  conscience  did.  As  a  com 
promise,  if  I  would  give  him  a  general  release,  he  offered  five 
thousand  .pounds.  I  would  have  taken  it,  but  I  had  employed 
a  lawyer,  and  he  hooted  at  the  idea ;  he  looked  for  more 
than  that  for  his  fee  when  he  recovered  the  full  amount.  I 
told  him  that  I  had  no  marriage  certificate,  and  that  the 
minister  who  married  us  was  dead.  So  he  was ;  Sir  Charles 
was  dead.  I  did  not  tell  him  that  no  other  ever  blessed  our 
banns.  I  told  him,  that  numerous  persons  would  swear  that 
they  had  heard  him  call  me  wife,  and  Katy  his  child.  He 
said,  that  would  do.  I  did  not  know  that  our  opponents 
could  produce  as  many  more  to  swear,  that  they  had  heard 
Sir  Charles  say,  that  it  was  only  a  marriage  of  convenience. 
So,  for  an  uncertainty  of  five  hundred  thousand  as  a  mere 
prospect,  I  refused  the  certainty  of  five  thousand,  and  went  to 
law.  The  evidence  stood  so  balanced  that  the  judge  could 
not  decide.  '  Let  the  wife  be  sworn.  Let  her  say,  upon  her 
oath,  that  she  was  married  to  Sir  Charles,  and  the  case  will 
be  given  in  her  favor.' 

"  There  was  a  chuckling  laugh  just  behind  me,  the  tones 
of  which  went  to  my  heart,  and  I  fainted.  It  was  De  Vrai. 
He  had  known  me  in  this  city,  and  persecuted  me  with  his 
importunities  while  Sir  Charles  was  living.  I  had  turned 
him  off  with  a  promise,  all  too  common,  *  when  Sir  Charles  is 
dead.'  Then  he  renewed  his  importunities,  and  I  told  him,  to 
wait  a  respectful  time.  He  followed  me  to  England,  and 


378  HOT    CORN. 

still  pressed  me,  and  I  still  put  liim  off.  He  had  hinted  seve 
ral  times  that  if  I  recovered  the  suit,  he  well  knew  that  he 
should  lose  his.  It  was  him  that  furnished  my  opponent 
with  a  clue  to  the  proof  that  we  were  never  married.  It 
was  him  that  laughed  in  my  ear  when  the  case  rested  upon 
the  question,  whether  I  would  swear  that  I  was  married  or 
not.  For  a  moment,  for  the  sake  of  my  child,  I  was 
tempted ;  that  laugh  recalled  me  partially,  and  I  was  carried 
away  in  a  litter,  and  the  case  adjourned.  For  aught  I  know 
it  still  remains  adjourned. 

"  De  Vrai  followed  me  to  my  hotel.  I  was  in  a  state  bor 
dering  upon  distraction.  With  a  foolish  pride,  to  keep  up 
appearances,  as  the  wife  of  Sir  Charles,  I  had  exhausted  all 
my  means,  and  run  awfully  in  debt.  I  had  written  to  my 
uncle,  in  New  York,  to  sell  my  furniture  at  auction,  and  send 
me  the  money.  After  a  long  delay  I  got  five  hundred  dol 
lars,  and  a  very  short  letter,  saying,  that  was  all  the  nett  pro 
ceeds.  I  felt,  I  cannot  tell  how.  I  knew  I  was  cheated,  and 
wrote  a  bitter  letter  back.  Then,  my  own  friends,  those  who 
had  fawned  around  the  rich  mistress  of  Sir  Charles,  cast  off 
the  poor  woman  struggling  to  recover  something  for  his 
child.  In  this  she  failed,  because  that  child  was  not  bom  in 
wedlock. 

"  I  was  now  poor  indeed.  What  could  I  do,  alone  in  a 
strange  land  ?  I  knew  that  De  Vrai  had  no  affection  for  me, 
only  such  as  one  animal  has  for  another,  but  in  my  despair 
I  married  him. 

"  His  means  of  living  were  derived  from  the  same  souroo 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  879 

that  hundreds  of  well-dressed  gentlemen  derive  theirs  from, 
in  this  city.  He  was  a  gambler ;  a  genteel  gambler.  Such 
as  you  may  find  in  every  hotel  in  New  York,  in  every  public 
place,  dressed  in  the  very  best  style,  living  in  the  most  expen 
sive  manner,  with  no  trade,  occupation,  or  exercise  of  mind 
or  skil1,  except  the  skill  of  cheating  at  card  playing. 

"  At  first,  we  lived  pleasantly ;  but  pleasures  with  such  men 
are  short-lived,  and  must  be  often  changed.  If  successful  in 
business — that  is  what  they  call  their  nefarious  employment 
— they  are  all  smiles  and  affection  to  wife  and  children  ;  but 
if  '  luck  is  against  them/  they  are  the  most  unhappy  men  in 
the  world,  and  make  everybody  else  unhappy  around  them. 
As  for  enduring  conjugal  affection,  I  believe  the  excitement 
of  a  gambler's  life  renders  them  incapable  of  feeling  its  influ 
ence.  I  can  scarcely  tell  how  the  months  passed  which  I 
lived  with  that  man,  for  I  drank  wine  to  excess  every  day. 
Not  to  become  intoxicated ;  only  just  fashionably  excited. 
We  lived  in  the  best  style  of  hotel  life,  often  at  the  expense 
of  the  proprietors. 

"  A  little  before  Sis  was  born,  De  Vrai  met  with  '  a  run  of 
luck,'  and  we  took  a  cottage  out  of  town,  and  lived  very 
comfortably  for  a  year,  upon  the  proceeds  of  that  *  windfall.' 

"  What  that  run  of  luck  was,  may  be  guessed  at  from  the 
following  extract  from  a  morning  paper  : — 

"  SUICIDE. — An  American  gentleman  was  found  dead  in  his  bed,  at 
his  lodgings,  this  morning,  and  it  is  supposed  he  died  from  poison, 
administered  by  himself,  in  consequence  of  immense  losses  at  the  gam- 
ing  table,  not  only  of  his  own  money,  but  a  sum  which  he  had 


HOT     CORN. 

received  in  trust  for  a  widow  and  orphans,  in  America.  It  is  said, 
that  te  owes  his  losses  to  the  wretched  practice  of  drinking  tc  intoxi 
cation,  and  that  he  was  fairly  robbed  while  in  this  condition,  by  a 
companion  of  his,  one  who  made  great  pretence  of  friendship.  H' 
leaves  a  beautiful  young  wife,  'quite  destitute,'  'tis  said." 

"I  did  not  know  then  that  this  companion  of  his  was  my 
husband.  I  found  that  out  afterwards,  and  that  he  was  more 
than  robbed. 

"  Soon  after  that  event,  De  Vrai  brought  the  widow  of  his 
victim  to  live  in  our  house.  I  was  the  wife — she  the 
mistress.  I  was  blind  at  first,  but  I  soon  had  my  eyes 
opened.  Opened  not  only  to  that  fact,  but  that  that  wife  had 
stood  behind  her  husband's  chair  while  he  played  with  the 
villain  who  robbed  him,  and  gave  the  signal  of  what  cards 
he  held  ;  and  afterwards,  when  he  became  sober  enough  to 
realize  his  ruin,  she  proposed  that  they  should  take  poison, 
and  die  together. 

"  The  result  need  not  be  told,  only  that  he  died  and  she  lived. 

"  When  I  made  these  discoveries  from  an  overheard  conver 
sation,  I  ordered  the  vile  woman  from  my  house. 

" '  My  house,  my  house,  ha,  ha,  you  poor  simpleton.  Every 
article  in  this  house  and  every  cent  of  money  that  you  or 
your  husband  has  on  earth  belongs  to  me,  and  these  are  the 
papers. 

"  *  Now  if  you  behave  yourself  you  can  stay  here,  if  not,  you 
will  have  to  tramp,  both  of  you.' 

"  She  shook  the  papers  in  my  face,  and  laughed  at  my  look 
of  fear  and  astonishment.  To  finish,  my  agony,  when  I  began 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  381 

to  talk  something  about  the  rights  of  an  English  wife,  she 
coolly  told  me  that  she  had  just  as  good  a  right  to  my  husband 
as  I  had,  for  he  had  one  wife  when  I  married  him,  and  that 
rendered  my  marriage  a  nullity.  What  a  shock  for  a  wife 
— to  hear  that  she  is  no  wife,  or  if  she  is,  the  wife  of  a 
robber,  adulterer,  and  murderer. 

"  I  heard  all  this  with  a  sort  of  indifference  foreign  to  my 
very  nature.  It  was  well  that  I  did,  for  it  enabled  me  to  per 
fect  my  plans,  and  carry  them  out  with  a  degree  of  coolness 
worthy  of  a  better  purpose.  I  had  been  promising  for  some 
time  to  visit  a  friend  for  a  week,  and  I  set  about  packing  up 
for  the  journey  at  once.  I  said  not  one  word  to  De  Vrai  of 
what  I  heard,  nor  gave  him  one  look  of  reproof.  Fortune 
had  made  me  acquainted  with  the  secret  hiding-place  of  the 
money  this  guilty  pair  h«,J  obtained  from  their  poor  victim, 
and  I  did  not  feel  any  compunctions  of  conscience  in  taking 
it  from  them.  In  three  days  'afterwards  I  was  in  Paris. 
Here  I  lived  a  few  months  a  wretched  life  of  dissipation, 
and  then  De  Vrai,  tracked  me  to  my  hiding-place  and  I  had 
to  fly  once  more  ;  this  time  across  the  ocean. 

I  had  five  hundred  dollars  when  I  arrived  in  this  city. 
"What  might  I  not  have  done  with  that  sum,  if  I  had  used  it 
prudently  ?  What  I-  did  do,  I  must  tell,  that  it  may  be  a 
warning  to  others.  It  would  be  a  source  of  consolatior  to 
me  if  I  knew  that  the  follies  of  my  life  could  be  illuminated 
and  set  up  as  a  beacon  light  to  my  fellow  creatures,  to  save 
them  from  the  quicksands  of  dissipation  upon  which  I  have 
been  wrecked — wrecked  by  my  own  folly  and  foolish  pride. 


882  HOT     CORN. 

"  It  was  pride,  foolish  wicked  pride,  that  led  me  to  go  to  a 
fashionable  hotel,  and  put  up,  with  my  two  children  and  nurse, 
as  Madame  De  Vrai,  from  Paris.  How  soon  five  hundred 
dollars  melt  away,  even  with  prudent  living,  at  a  New  York 
hotel.  I  did  not  live  prudently.  I  drank  to  excess,  gave  late 
suppers,  and  gambled.  This  could  not  last  long,  though 
many  hundreds  of  the  dollars  worse  than  wasted  in  those  few 
weeks,  were  won  from  others  equally  guilty  of  this  besetting 
wickedness  and  folly  with  myself.  Such  a  life  could  not 
last.  My  first  step  down  was  to  a  cheap  lodging  in  Crosby 
street.  I  cannot  tell  how  I  lived  there.  I  only  know  that 
my  valuables,  my  clothes,  everything  went  to  the  pawn 
broker,  and  1  went  to  that  wretched  hole  where  you  first  saw 
me  in  Cow  Bay,  from  whence  I  drove  my  poor  little  Katy  out 
in  the  streets  at  midnight,  to  sea  Hot  Corn.  It  was  there 
that  my  poor  child  died.  It  was  there  that  you  received  her 
dying  blessing,  and  I  her  dying  forgiveness  for  all  the  wrongs 
that  I  had  heaped  upon  her  poor  innocent  head.  It  was  then 
by  her  death  that  I  was  awakened  to  consciousness  and  I  felt 
and  saw  my  own  deep  soul  and  body  destroying  degradation. 
It  was  through  her  death  and  translation  to  a  home  in  heaven, 
that  I  have  obtained  a  hope  that  my  Father  may  forgive 
what  my  child  has  forgiven,  and  that  I  may  yet  see  her  again. 
It  was  Him,  it  must  have  been  Him  that  opened  your  ear  to 
that  little  plaintive  cry  of '  Hot  Corn,'  that  rose  up  through 
your  window  on  its  way  to  the  home  of  angels  watch  ng 
over  a  child  whom  her  mother  had  forsaken. 

"  It  was  His  power — no  earthly  power  could  have  aroused  my 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  383 

mind  from  its  lethargy,  that  awakened  me  one  moment  before 
it  was  too  late.  It  was  a  bitter  trial,  but  nothing  else  but  the 
death  of  that  sweet  child  would  have  been  sufficient  to  save 
her  wicked  mother ;  I  cannot  mourn  her  loss,  because  I  feel 
that  she  is  now  so  much  better  off  than  while  singing  her 
nightly  cry  through  the  streets,  of  '  Hot  Corn,  Hot  Corn,  here's 
your  nice  hot  corn  ! '  Speaking  of  singing,  have  you  seen  the 
new  song,  just  published,  called  '  The  Dying  Words  of  Little 
Katy,  or  Will  He  Come  ?' 

"  Oh  it  is  beautiful.     Here  it  is,  do  read  it : — 

"  Here's  hot  corn,  nice  hot  corn  !"  a  voice  was  crying! 
Sweet  hot  corn,  sweet  hot  corn  !  the  breeze  is  sighing ! 
Come  buy,  come  buy — the  world's  unfeeling — 
How  can  she  sell  while  sleep  is  stealing? 

"  Hot  corn  !  come  buy  my  nice  hot  corn  1" 

All  alone,  all  alone,  she  sat  there  weeping ; 
While  at  home,  while  at  home,  her  sister's  sleeping, 
"  Come  buy,  come  buy,  I'm  tired  of  staying ; 
Come  buy,  come  buy,  I'm  tired  of  saying, 

Hot  corn,  come  buy  my  nice  hot  corn  1" 

Often  there,  often  there,  she  sat  so  drear'ly 
With  one  thought,  for  she  loved  her  sister  dearly  : 
Did'st  hate,  did'st  hate — how  could  she  ever, 
How  could  she  hate  her  mother  ? — never. 

"  Hot  corn,  come  buy  my  nice  hot  corn  !'' 

Often  there,  often  there,  while  others  playing, 
Hear  the  cry,  "  buy  my  corn,"  she's  ever  praying. 


#84  HOT     CORN. 

"  Pray  buy,  pray  buy,  kind  hearted  stranger, 
One  ear,  then  home,  I'll  brave  the  danger; 

Hot  corn,  come  buy  my  nice  hot  corn  !" 

Now  at  home,  now  at  home,  her  cry  is  changing ! 
"  Will  he  come,  will  he  come?"  while  fever's  raging. 
She  cries,  she  cries,  "pray  let  me  see  him  ; 
Once  more,  once  more,  pray  let  me  see  him. 

Hot  corn,  he'll  buy  my  nice  hot  corn !" 

"Will  he  come,  will  he  come?"  she's  constant  crying, 
"  Will  he  come,  will  he  come?"  poor  Katy's  dying. 
"  'Twas  he,  'twas  he,  kind  words  was  speaking 
Hot  corn,  hot  corn,  while  1  was  seeking 

Hot  corn,  who'll  buy  my  nice  hot  corn  ?" 

"  Midnight  there,  midnight  there,  my  hot  corn  crying, 
Kindly  spoke,  first  kind  words,  they  stop'd  my  sighing 
That  night,  that  night,  when  sleep  was  stealing, 
Kind  words,  kind  words — my  heart  was  healing; 
Hot  corn,  he'll  buy  my  nice  hot  corn  ! 

"  Will  he  come,  will  he  come  ?" — weak  hands  are  feeling ! 

"  He  has  come,  he  has  come — I  see  him  kneeling — 
One  kiss — the  light — how  dim  'tis  growing — 
I  thank — 'tis  dark — good  bye — I'm  going — 

Hot  corn — no  more  shall  cry — hot  coin !  1 1" 

Drop  a  tear,  drop  a  tear,  for  she's  departed, 
Drop  a  tear,  drop  a  tear,  poor  broken  hearted, 
Now  pledge,  now  pledge,  the  world  is  crying, 
Take  warning,  warning,  by  Katy's  dying, 

"  Hot  corn,  who'll  buy  my  nice  hot  corn  ?" 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  *  885 

**  The  music  of  this,  as  it  is  arranged  for  the  piano,  is  one 
of  the  sweetest,  plaintive  things  you  ever  heard." 

"  And  besides  that,  there  are  a  good  many  other  songs  and 
tales,  so  Agnes  tells  me,  already  written,  which  never  would 
have  been  if  my  poor  child  had  not  been  called  away  from 
her  home  of  misery  here  on  earth  to  one  made  for  the  inno 
cent  and  good  beyond  the  grave.  Who  knows  how  much 
good  all  those  songs  and  stories,  may  do  in  the  world,  to  save 
others  from  the  road  which  I  took  to  destruction  ?" 

"Oh,  if  the  wretched,  awful  misery  occasioned  by  rum, 
which  I  alone  have  seen,  could  be  pictured  to  the  world,  it 
does  seem  to  me  that  no  sane  man  or  woman  could  ever  look 
upon  the  picture  and  live,  without  becoming  so  affected  that 
they  would  foreswear  all  intoxicating  beverages  for  ever  after 
wards." 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  know  that  I  am  now  on  my  death  bed,  and  1 
feel  as  though  I  was  talking  from  the  spirit  world,  and  I  do 
pray  you  to  tell  my  fellow  creatures,  one  and  all — tell  my  own 
sex  who  are  just  beginning  this  life  of  temptation,  degradation, 
sin,  shame,  woe,  and  death,  what  it  brought  me  to,  what  it 
will  bring  all  to,  sooner  or  later,  who,  indulge  as  I  did,  first  in 
wine,  and,  finally,  in  anything,  everything  that  could  sink 
reason  into  forgetfulness." 

Reader,  have  I  obeyed  that  dying  injunction  t 


386  HOT     CORN. 


CHAPTER  XVIH. 

JULIA  ANTRIM,  AND  OTHER  OLD  ACQUAINTANCES. 

"Phould  old  acquaintance  be  forgot?" 
** '  h-»«v      a  lf . .  sheep  returned  to  the  fold." 

Ii  tb^.^€  \  jo  wii-d  rc/cbrm  the  vicious,  knew  the  power  of 
love  ant  kind  w  is  towards  the  poor  fallen  creatures  who 
abound  in  our  ci\y,  and  how  much  stronger  they  are  than 
prison  bars,  how  much  more  powerful  than  handcuffs,  fetters 
and  whip  lashes,  we  should  soon  see  the  spirit  of  reformation 
hovering  over  us  like  the  guardian  angel  sent  to  save  a  city 
that  should  be  found  to  contain  only  five  righteous  persons. 

My  readers  may  remember  the  slight  glimpse  they  had  of 
the  face  of  Julia  Antrim,  on  two  occasions — once  as  a  street 
walker,  only  thirteen  years  old,  dressed  in  borrowed  clothes, 
or  rather  in  garments  furnished  by  one  of  the  beldams  who 
keep  the  keys  of  our  numerous  city  pandemoniums,  where 
innocence  is  entrapped,  and  virtue  sold  at  a  discount;  ana 
again  a  year  or  two  later,  when  the  fiend  who  said  "our 
trade,"  laughed  to  see  her  dragged  out  of  one  of  the  under 
ground  dens  where  demons  dwell,  where  rum  is  sold  and 
souls  destroyed,  on  her  way  to  prison,  and  the  termination  of 
a  career,  to  which  one  half,  at  least,  arrive  at,  who  take  the 
first  step — false  step — in  the  same  road. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  387 

In  the  morning  she  was  "  sent  up :"  a  short  phrase  which 
means  imprisonment  for  six  months  in  the  citv  penitentiary. 
Penitentiary  ! !  What  is  a  penitentiary  ?  A  place  of  repent 
ance  and  reformation. 

Ours  is  a  place  to  harden  young  offenders,  or  rum-made 
criminals — to  make  them  worse  rather  than  better.  It  made 
Julia  Antrim  worse.  It  was  the  work  of  the  missionary,  and 
the  benevolent  heart  of  Mr.  Lovetree,  and  the  kind  words  of 
Mrs.  May  and  Stella,  that  effected  what  dungeons,  fetters 
whips,  and  harsh  language  could  not. 

"  Oh  !"  said  Mrs.  Morgan  to  me  one  evening,  "  such  a  story 
as  my  uncle  has  been  telling  me  ;  do  tell  him,  uncle,  about  one 
of  those  *  Five  Point  girls,'  rescued  from  one  of  those  misera 
ble  dens." 

"  Yon  remember  the  girl,"  said  he,  "  that  you  saw  dragged 
out  of  the  cellar  for  picking  her  paramour's  pocket  ?  Come 
with  me  and  you  shall  see  her  and  hear*  her  own  story. 
Athalia,  come  put  on  your  hat  and  go  with  us.  You  know 
how  glad  Mrs.  May  and  Stella  always  are  to  see  you." 

They  were  so  this  evening.  Stella  was  in  the  front  shop 
busy  with  her  pins  and  needles,  threads  and  tapes,  and  all  the 
numerous  little  articles  of  necessity  which  go  to  make  up  an 
assortment,  for  which  she  had  a  demand  that  not  only  kept 
her  busy,  but  also  a  fine  bright  active  little  boy.  He  is  on 
the  road  to  wealth  and  manhood  now.  He  was  on  the  road 
to  ruin  once.  He  was  the  son  of  a  drunken  father,  who 
•taught  him  to  uprig"  and  sell  the  stolen  articles  for  rum. 
The  reader  has  seen  him  before.  Would  you  like  to  know 


388  HOT     CORN. 

where?  Turn  back  to  page  30 — look  at  that  picture  of 
the  fireman  rescuing  two  children  from  the  flames.  This 
bright  boy  is  the  child  of  drunken  Bill  Eaton.  How  Stella's 
eyes  did  sparkle  as  she  saw  us  enter ;  far  more  than  they 
would  to  see  her  best  customer,  for  now  she  saw  her  best 
friend,  her  kind  patron,  who  gave  her  the  means  to  gain 
good  customers. 

"Oh,  mother,  mother,  here  is  Mr.  Lovetree  and  Mrs. 
Morgan,  and  that  other  gentleman  !" 

Then  Mrs.  May's  eyes  sparkled,  for  "  she  was  so  glad  to  see 
us  " — she  was  always  glad  to  see  us.  She  was  very  busy  in 
the  little  back  shop,  working  away,  and  she  had  two  very 
neat-looking  industrious  girls  at  work  with  her.  We  have 
seen  both  of  them  before.  One  of  them  for  the  first  time  on 
the  steps  of  the  Bank  of  the  Republic,  clothed  in  a  poor 
dirty  ragged  dress,  with  that  same  little  boy,  sickly  and 
pale,  leaning  upon  his  sister  for  support,  and  keeping  her 
company  as  the  two  wandered  through  the  streets,  making 
midnight  melodious  with  that  ever  pealing  summer  cry,  of, 
"Hot  corn,  hot  corn,  here's  your  nice  hot  corn,  smoking 
hot,  smoking  hot,  just  from  the  pot,  all  hot,  hot,  hot !" 

She  will  sing  it  no  more.  She  is  in  a  better  situation  now 
for  a  little  girl  than  midnight  street  rambling  ;  that  is  not  the 
best  school  for  young  girls — we  have  seen  how  near  the  brink 
uf  ruin  it  led  Sally  Eaton. 

She  was  rescued  just?  in  time — just  before  she  was  lost. 
Two  great  calamities  fell  upon  her  in  one  night  Her  father 
was  killed,  and  her  mother's  house  was  burned,  leaving  the 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  389 

poor  widow  and  her  two  children  in  the  street,  naked,  except 
one  garment,  amid  the  crowd  that  came  to  look  upon  what 
she  then  thought  the  wreck  of  all  hope.  It  proved  her 
greacest  blessing ;  for  in  that  crowd  were  those  who  took  her 
in,  and  clothed  and  fed,  and  sent  her  children  to  school,  and 
taught  her  girl  how  to  work ;  and,  finally,  placed  her  as  a  help 
to  another  widow,  where  she  will  soon  learn  and  earn  enough 
to  help  herself.  The  other  girl,  who  is  now  working  with  her 
old  companion,  was  once  her  street  associate  in  rags  and 
wretchedness ;  afterwards,  her  envied,  because  better  clothed, 
acquaintance.  We  saw  her  too,  upon  the  same  evening  that 
we  first  saw  the  little  Hot  Corn  girl  driven  away  from  her 
hard  seat  upon  those  cold  stone  steps — less  cold  than  the 
heart  of  the  great  world  towards  its  outcast  population.  We 
saw  her  again,  just  where  we  then  knew  that  her  course  of 
life  would  lead  her-^to  intoxication, — wretchedness — crime — 
prisons,  and — no,  she  stopped  just  short  of  death,  and  returned 
to  virtue,  industry,  and  happiness. 

After  the  heartfelt,  happiness-giving  congratulations  of 
Mrs.  May,  Stella,  Sally  Eaton,  and  "Brother  Willie,"  were 
over,  I  turned  to  a  nice,  modest-looking  young  girl  and  said, 
"  and  who  is  this  ?  What  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Julia  Antrim,  sir." 

Did  I  dream  ?  No,  I  did  not  dream,  I  looked  upon  sober 
icality.  It  was  the  poor  outcast,  whom  I  had  seen  dragged 
away  from  the  underground  abode  of  all  that  is  bad,  to  "  the 
Tombs,"  and  from  whence  she  went  to  "  the  Island,"  and  as  I 
heard,  from  there,  at  the  expiration  of  her  noviciate,  to  one 


390  HOT    CORN. 

of  the  lowest,  most  degraded,  worse  than  beastly,  abodes  of 
those  who  have  only  the  form  of  humanity  remaining.  So  I 
told  her  I  had  heard,  and  she  replied, 

"  True — where  else  could  I  go  ?  I  could  go  nowhere  but 
there.  I  came  out  of  prison  with  only  the  clothes  they  gave 
me  there,  with  my  hair  cropped — branded,  to  tell  all  the  world 
to  beware  of  me^— that  I  was  a  '  prison  bird.'  If  I  desired, 
and  I  really  did,  to  return  to  a  virtuous  life,  the  door  was 
for  ever  closed  against  me.  I  went  back  to  Mrs.  Brown's,  the 
woman  who  had  first  tempted  me,  with  fine  clothes  and 
jewelry,  to  sin — to  that  house  where  I  lost  all  that  a  poor  girl 
has  on  earth — her  virtue — where  I  had  sinned  and  profited, 
as  the  term  is,  by  sinning;  where  I  had  left  piles  of  rich 
clothing,  and  pretended  friends.  I  knocked  at  the  door,  once 
so  ready  to  open  for  my  first  admission,  and  that  too  was 
closed  in  my  face  with  an  oath,  a  horrid,  wicked  woman's 
oath,  bidding  me  to  go  away  or  she  would  send  a  policeman 
— I  knew  the  policeman  would  do  her  bidding — to  take  me 
away  as  a  common  street  vagrant,  coming  there  to  disgrace  a 
*  respectable  house.'  I  went  away,  dispirited,  broken-hearted, 
arid  sunk  down  into  that  wretched  abode  in  Anthony  street, 
where  I  was  found  by  Mr.  Pease,  and  actually  compelled, 
much  against  my  will,  to  go  to  the  Five  Points  House  of 
Industry,  where  I  was  washed,  and  clothed,  and  fed,  and 
sobered,  furnished  with  work,  and,  above  all  else,  taught  to  love 
God  and  pray,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  more  than  two  years, 
to  feel  one  moment  of  happiness. 

When  I  was  with  those  wretches  in  that  miserable  hole 


LIFE     SCENES    IN     NEW    YORK.  31)1 

where  Mr.  Pease  found  me,  I  really  thought  that  my  heart 
had  got  so  bad,  that  it  could  not,  would  not,  ever  be  good 
again. 

"  How  I  did  use  to  curse  and  hate  everybody  that  was  good. 
That  good  man  who  saved  me  at  last,  I  hated  worse  than  all 
others.  All  who  are  like  what  I  was  then,  hate  him  and 
fear  him  more  then  they  do  all  the  prisons  and  police  in  the 
city.  If  somebody  would  publish  the  truth,  or  only  half  tho 
truth,  of  what  I  alone  know  of  the  crime  and  misery  about 
the  Five  Points  of  New  York,  and  how  much  good  all  the 
good  men  have  done  who  have  devoted  themselves  to  the 
reformation  of  those  wretched  human  beings,  J  do  think  that 
everybody  with  a  good  heart  would  buy  the  book,  and  thus 
contribute  a  mite  to  aid  the  good  work — a  work  that  saves 
from  a  life  worse  than  death,  scores  of  children  and  young 
girls,  lost  to  every  virtuous  thought  or  action ;  lost  to  all  hope 
in  life  or  eternity. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  and  she  seized  me  by  the  hands  in  her  energy, 
"  you  can  write — Stella  has  told  me  how  you  can  write — that 
you  have  written  some  powerful  stories ;  pray  write  more, 
more,  more ;  the  world  will  read,  and  it  will  do  a  world  of 
good." 

"  Well,  Julia,  if  I  write,  I  must  have  characters  and  names, 
to  fill  up  the  incidents  of  my  Life  Scenes,  shall  I  use  yours  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  if  it  will  do  good,  and  save  others." 

"And  mine."  "And  mine."  "And  mine."  "I  think," 
said  Mrs.  May,  "  that  the  incidents  connected  with  Athalia's 
life,  would  alone  make  quite  a  volume ;  would  you  have  any 


592  HOT     CORN. 

objection  to  having  them  written  out   and  published,  Mm 
Morgan  2" 

"  Perhaps  I  might  consent,  if  it  was  well  done,  if  it  would 
serve  as  a  beacon  to  save  others  from  being  shipwrecked  upon 
the  same  desolate  shore  where  I  came  so  near  being  totally 
lost ;  only  escaping  by  the  smallest  chance,  and  by  one  of  the 
most  singular  interpositions  of  Providence,  and  through  the 
efforts  of  one  of  the  weakest  instruments.  It  is  to  Stella,  first 
of  all  that  I  owe  my  present  happiness.  It  was  through  her 
that  all  my  friends  became  interested  for  me.  In  fact,  if  it 
had  not  been  for  her,  my  dear  uncle  would  never  have  known 
where  to  find  me." 

"Rather  give  the  credit  to  a  higher  power;  that  power 
which  gave  him  the  kind  benevolent  heart  that  beats  in  his 
breast ;  that  disposition  to  watch  over  the  young  and  guard 
the  innocent,  which  led  him  to  take  an  interest  in  my  poor 
child.  Let  us  be  grateful  to  all  the  humble  instruments  of 
Him  who  giveth  every  good  and  perfect  gift  to  man,  but  to 
Him  to  whom  we  owe  all  of  our  present  happiness,  be  the 
final  praise." 

Now  there  was  a  little  space  of  silence ;  a  time  for  reflec 
tion  ;  all  were  too  full  of  thought,  holy,  happy  thought,  to 
speak.  It  is  good  to  think.  The  world  is  generally  too 
much  given  to  act  without  thinking.  Mr.  Lovetree  was  not. 
He  thought  that  we  had  agreed  to  visit  Mrs.  De  Vrai,  on  our 
way  home,  "  but  before  I  go,"  said  he,  "  I  want  to  invite  you 
all  to  dine  with  us  next  Sabbath.  I  want  to  see  our  little 
party  of  friends  all  together,  for  a  certain  purpose." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  393 

"  Uncle  always  has  a  little  surprise  to  play  oft  upon  his 
friends.  I  am  afraid  this  is  not  a  pleasant  one,  or  else  he 
would  not  have  chosen  Sunday." 

"  I  chose  that,"  said  he,  "  because  I  know  how  difficult  it  is 
for  the  laboring  poor  to  give  a  day  from  their  working  time, 
for  any  kind  of  recreation.  I  assure  you  that  this  will  be  a 
pleasant  surprise,  though  not  an  inappropriate  one  for  the  day, 
for  I  intend  to  have  a  minister  with  us  to  ask  a  blessing  upon 
our  food." 

"  Oh,"  said  Stella,  "  I  can  guess  it." 

Young  girls  are  always  ready  to  guess  as  she  did.  She 
guessed  it  was  to  be  a  wedding.  She  guessed  that  Mrs. 
Morgan  was  going  to  be  married.  Then  the  others  guessed 
so  too.  Mrs.  Morgan  guessed  not.  She  was  sure  she  could 
not  get  married  without  somebody  to  have  her.  Of  course 
not.  But  Stella  thought  that  "  somebody"  would  not  be  very 
hard  to  find.  She  knew  a  gentleman  that  liked  her  well 
enough  to  marry  her." 

At  any  rate,  that  the  party  was  to  be  a  wedding  one  was 
pretty  well  settled.  Whether  the  bride  will  be  Athalia  or 
not  we  shall  see  So  then,  after  lots  of  "  good  night "  and 
"  do  come  again  soon,"  we  parted,  and  went  on  our  way  to 
visit  the  sick  and  dying  victim  of  fashionable  dissipation, 
which  led  her  through  a  rapid  career  of  a  few  happy  months, 
and  then  through  years  of  woe,  from  wine  at  dinner,  to 
"  cobblers  "  at  late  suppers,  and  bitters  in  the  morning ;  till  an 
appetite  was  acquired  which  'could  only  be  satisfied  by  con 
stant  libations  of  anything  that  would  intoxicate,  procured  by 

17* 


394  HOT    CORN. 

any  means,  however  debasing,  till  she  ceased  to  be  a  lady ; 
almost  ceased  to  be  a  woman ;  quite  forgot  that  she  was  a 
mother ;  else  how  could  she  have  driven  that  poor  little  inno 
cent  child  out  upon  the  streets,  murky  and  damp,  with  her 
cry  of  "  Hot  Corn,  hot  corn,  all  smoking  hot !"  while  the  poor 
child  was  chilly,  cold,  and  starving  ? 

Poor  girl — poor  little  Katy  !  Thy  mother  loves  thee  now. 
Look  down  from  thy  blest  abode — it  is  thy  mother  calls,  it  is 
thy  voice  she  hears,  and  she  answers,  "  Yes,  yes  I  will  come." 

"  She  is  better,  sir,"  said  Phebe,  as  we  entered  the  door. 
"  She  has  been  sitting  up  a  good  deal,  and  she  talks  of  going 
over  to  your  house  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Morgan ;  she  says  she 
jaust  go  out,  and  take  the  air,  or  she  never  will  get  well." 

This  was  pleasant  news,  and  it  quite  elated  Mrs.  Morgan. 
Mr.  Lovetree  gave  one  of  his  peculiar  expressions  of  counte 
nance  as  soon  as  he  saw  her,  which  told  as  plain  as  though  he 
had  spoken  it,  that  she  never  would  go  out  again  but  once, 
that  would  be  a  ride  which  all  must,  none  are  willing,  to  take. 

We  were  all  verymuch  delighted  to  find  Mrs.  Meltraud  and 
Agnes,  with  Mrs.  De  Vrai.  Mrs.  Meltrand,  ever  since  she  had 
first  seen  her,  had  fallen  in  love  with  little  Sissee,  the  sweet 
little  Adaleta,  and  this  evening  Mrs.  De  Vrai,  had  made  her  a 
final  promise,  that  if  she  should  not  get  well,  Mrs.  Meltrand 
should  have  her  for  her  own ;  and  she  had  promised  to  adopt  her 
and  make  her  as  much  her  child  as  though  she  was  really  so. 

"  But  what  is  the  use  of  talking  ?  I  don't  feel  any  more 
like  dying  than  you  do.  I  am  almost  well.  My  cough  has 
quite  gone." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  395 

But  a  bright  crimson  spot  upon  each  cheek  had  not  gone; 
and  that  told  its  own  tale.  Adaleta  was  delighted  with  sister 
Agnes.  She  could  hardly  bear  to  part  with  her.  She  will 
not,  but  her  mother  must.  How  little  any  one  would  have 
thought,  as  we  parted  that  evening,  leaving  the  invalid  so 
cheerful  and  full  of  hope,  that  we  had  parted  for  the  last  time. 
No !  not  the  last  time — may  we  hope  for  one  more  meetirg? 
Let  us  now  retire  to  our  chambers  and  prepare  for  that  meet 
ing.  Let  us  say  to  the  reader,  as  we  said  to  the  poor  sufferer, 
"  Good  night.  God  be  with  you !" 


396  HOT     CORN. 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 

All  things  must  l.are  an  end. 

Where  there  is  true  friendship,  there  needs  no  glosa  to  our  deeda,  no  hollow 
welcome  to  real  friends. 

"Brand  by"  is  easy  said  ;  it  means  an  uncertain  time,  but  it 
comes  at  last,  It  came  to  Mrs.  De  Vrai,  only  a  few  hours 
after  our  last  parting.  Phebe  came  with  the  early  morning 
to  say,  "  She  is  gone,  sir ;  gone  to  meet  her  poor  child  in  the 
hope  of  the  penitent.  After  you  went  away,  she  lay  and 
talked  and  talked  about  you,  all  of  you,  and  Mrs.  Meltrand 
and  Agnes,  and  how  happy  she  should  be  if  she  was  a  going 
to  die,  to  think  that  her  child  would  have  such  a  good  mother 
and  sister,  and  so  many  real  friends ;  and  how  different  it 
would  be  with  herself  now,  here  and  hereafter,  as  well  as  her 
child,  than  it  would  have  been  if  she  had  died  in  her  former 
residence  of  wretchedness,  sin,  and  woe.  Then  I  asked  her  if 
she  would  take  her  medicine  and  go  to  sleep,  and  she  said* 
*  by  and  by,  not  now  ;  I  feel  so  well,  so  happy,  I  can  almost 
fancy  that  I  see  my  poor  little  Katy  in  heaven  among  the 
angels.  I  often  see  her  here  in  the  room  when  I  am  laying 
with  my  eyes  closed,  but  not  asleep ;  and  I  often  think  I  hear 
her  dying  words,  "  Will  ha  Come !"  and  I  say  "  yes,  he  has 
come;  the  Saviour  has  come,  my  child,  to  your  mother." 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  397 

Then  she  says,  "  then  come,  mother,  come  and  live  with  us  ;" 
and  I  answer,  "  by  and  by."  By  and  by,  Phebe  I  shall  go, 
but  not  yet,  I  am  going  to  get  well  now.' 

"  So  I  went  and  lay  down  in  the  back  room,  and  I  heard 
nothing  of  her,  though  I  got  up  and  looked  at  her  a  good 
many  times,  but  she  seemed  to  be  sleeping  so  sweet,  I  thought 
I  would  not  wake  her  to  take  her  medicine — the  doctor  said  I 
need  not.  In  the  morning  I  got  up,  and  looked  in  the  room, 
and  there  was  Sissee  sitting  up  in  the  bed,  trying  to  open  her 
mother's  eyes ;  then  she  would  put  her  arms  around  her  neck 
and  kiss  her,  but  there  was  no  kiss  in  return.  Then  she  sat 
back  and  looked  at  her  a  minute,  and  then  called — '  Phebe, 
Phebe,  mamma  does  not  speak,  oh  Phebe,  is  mamma  dead  ?' " 

Yes  mamma  was  dead.  She  had  died  as  calm  and  free 
from  pain  and  full  of  joy  as  when  she  said  "  good  night "  to  her 
friends.  She  had  died  full  of  anticipation  that  she  was  going 
to  live  to  get  well ;  that  she  would  not  join  the  spirit  of  Little 
Katy  now,  but  by  and  by :  by  and  by  she  would  come. 

Drop  a  tear,  drop  a  tear,  for  she's  departed ! 
Wreath  a  smile,  for  she  died  not  broken-hearted. 

This  was  on  Friday  morning.  On  the  Sunday  following, 
the  intended  party  met  at  Mrs.  Morgan's  and  partook  of  an 
early  dinner.  "For,"  said  Mr.  Lovetree,  "we  have  a  good  deal  to 
do  this  afternoon.  In  the  first  place,  some  of  our  friends  are 
disposed  to  be  united  in  the  holy,  the  blessed  bonds,  that  bind 
the  sexes  together  in  a  union  that  should  be  indissoluble,  and 
oroductive  of  nothing  but  happiness.  After  that  we  have  a 


398         •  HOT     CORN. 

duty  to  perform,  which  though  it  is  generally  termed  melan 
choly,  must  not  be  made  so  on  the  present  occasion.  We 
shall  go  to  deposit  the  body  in  Greenwood,  that  lovely  place 
of  rest  for  the  dead,  of  one  who  we  have  every  reason  to 
believe  died  a  true  penitent,  and  is  now  with  the  spirit  of 
Little  Katy,  where  those  who  are  murdered  by  the  same  cause 
that  produced  her  death,  will  seldom  ever  be  found.  Our 
good  missionary  is  with  us,  and  we  will  have  the  wedding 
ceremony  before  the  funeraL  one,  because  many  go  from  that 
to  the  grave,  none  come  from  there  to  the  marriage  feast." 

Now  all  began  to  look  around  for  the  happy  couple.  Mrs. 
Morgan  was  dressed  as  though  she  might  be  a  bride,  but 
where  was  the  groom  ?  Mr.  Lovetree  whispered  to  Mrs. 
Meltrand,  for  she  was  there  with  Agnes  and  little  Sis,  and 
Mrs.  Meltrand  said  that  Frank  would  be  there  by  the  time. 

"  Now  what  Frank  is  that  ?"  said  Stella  in  a  whisper  to 
Mrs.  May;  "it  must  be  Frank  Barkley ;  and  so  it  is  Mrs. 
Morgan  that  is  going  to  be  married.  Oh,  dear,  I  am  sorry,  I 
was  in  hopes  she  would  always  live  with  her  old  uncle,  as  she 
does  now." 

It  was  Frank  Barkley  who  was  expected.  He  was  an  old 
acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Meltrand,  a  little  wild  in  his  youth,  and 
came  within  an  inch  of  the  precipice  over  which  so  many 
young  men  tumble.  Mr.  Lovetree  had  said,  "  there  is  some 
thing  good  in  the  fellow,"  and  between  him  and  Mrs.  Mel 
trand,  it  was  developed.  He  is  a  good  fellow — a  sober  fellow 
now — and  he  is  going  to  be  married.  Now  the  door  bell 
rings. 


LIFE    SCENES    IN    NEW    YORK.  309 

"  There  that  is  him." 

Yes,  it  was  him.  He  was  told  that  all  were  waiting  foi 
him,  and  he  said  "  he  had  come  to  the  minute  agreed  upon." 
Poor  Stella  shed  tears.  She  cried  to  think  her  dear  friend, 
Mrs.  Morgan,  was  about  to  be  married.  She  cried  without  a 
cause. 

Mr.  Lovetree  said  to  Frank,  "  allow  me  to  introduce  you 
to  my  niece,  Mrs.  Morgan." 

He  started  back  from  her,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  looked 
again.  Stella  rubbed  hers.  She  was  convinced  now  that  they 
were  not  to  be  married.  Poor  Frank  looked  confused  and 
in  doubt.  He  approached  near  enough  to  Mrs.  Morgan  to 
whisper,  "  Lucy,"  to  which  she  replied,  "  Yes,"  and  he  said, 
"  God  bless  you  then,"  and  turned  away  to  meet  his  bride. 

This  was  Agnes.  And  he  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  led 
her  up  to  the  minister  who  was  to  pronounce  them  man  and 
wife,  and  said — "  Now,  sir,  we  are  ready."  Then  a  couple, 
who  were  to  act  as  bridesmaid  and  bridegroom's  attendant, 
took  their  stations  upon  the  floor.  It  was  the  opinion  of  all 
present  that  they  would  act  as  principals  in  a  similar  scene 
by  and  by. 

Perhaps  the  reader  would  like  to  know  who  this  neatly- 
» dressed,  bright  couple  are,  for  he  has  seen  them  several  times 
before.  It  is  one  of  Mr.  Lovetree's  oddities  that  you  see 
them  now.  You  have  seen  them  when  they  would  not  be 
very  fitting  guests  in  a  parlor,  but  they  wear  wedding-gar 
ments  now.  This  is  Tom,  who  held  the  cup  of  cold  water 


400  HOT     CORN 

U>  the  lips  of  the  dying  Madalina,  and  this  is  his  reward.-    The 
neat,  lovely  girl  at  his  side  is  Wild  Maggie — Miss  Margaret 
Reagan.     The  fine-looking  hearty  man  that  is  leading  up  a 
well-dressed  woman  to  the  altar — another  couple  to  be  mar 
ried — is  one  of  the  former  customers  of  Gale  Jones's  grocery. 
It  is  Maggie's  father.     His  bride  is  Mrs.  Eaton.     We  have 
seen  her  and  her  two  children  in  some  of  the  early  scenes  of 
this  volume.     We  saw  them  in  the  street  then — we  see  them 
in  the  parlor  now.     V{e  see  them  much  better,  much  hap 
pier  this  time,  and  we  see  them  just  as  we  might  see  all  the 
laboring  class,  if  we  could  abolish  the  traffic  in  rum  from  the 
world.     There  are  two  other  couples  here  to  bear  testimony 
to  that  fact.     It  was  the  particular  request  of  Reagan  and 
Maggie  that  they  should  be  present  to  witness  and  rejoice 
over  the  power  of  the  pledge  to  save.     We  have  seen  both 
these  couples  stand  up  to  be  married  before  the  same  minister 
who  is  now  saying  the  solemn  words  of  the  marriage  cere 
mony  to  those  before  him.     You  may  see  them  as  they  were 
when  you  first  saw  them,  if  you  will  turn  back  to  the  plate 
facing  the  "  Two  Penny  Marriage." 

Julia  Antrim  and  Willie  Reagan  act  as  attendants  upon 
this  last  couple,  and  Sally  Reagan  and  Stella  May,  dressed  in 
pure  white — dresses  of  their  own  make — with  wreaths  of 
flowers  in  their  hair,  made  by  their  own  hands — served  the 
company  with  cakes  and  fruits  and  tea  and  coffee.  Then  the 
carriages  came  to  the  door,  and  all  wer  t — not  to  a  tavern,  or 
drinking  salooa  for  a  riot,  to  commemor.ite  the  most  serious 
event  of  life,  but  in  all  soberness  due  to  the  occasion,  to  con« 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  401 

sign  the  remains  of  poor  Madame  De  Vrai  to  her  final  resting- 
place  on  the  earth. 

It  is  a  pleasant  drive  to  Greenwood  Cemetery,  and  it  is  a 
pleasant  place  for  the  tombs  of  our  friends.  It  is  a  good 
place  to  go  to  meditate,  among  the  new-made  graves  in  the 
fresh-turned  earth,  and  among  the  proud  monuments  of  those 
who  have  lain  long  enough  beneath  their  marble  coverings 
to  be  forgotten.  I  did  not  forget  to  look,  as  I  passed  along,  at 
the  rose  bush  which  I  saw  planted  by  a  widow  at  the  grave 
of  her  rum-murdered  husband.  It  was  growing  fresh  and 
vigorously. 

Now  we  stand  around  the  open  grave  that  is  soon  to  be 
filled  by  another  victim  of  a  trade  that  feeds  scores  and 
starves  millions — that  saves  one  life  and  causes  a  thousand 
deaths — that  consigns  youth,  innocence  and  beauty,  equally  with 
old  age,  to  a  premature  grave.  Now  we  lower  this  last  victim 
— still  young,  beautiful,  intelligent,  full  of  sweetness  of  disposi 
tion  and  kindness  of  heart — into  her  grave.  Now  we  look  at  the 
little  cherub,  the  darling,  sweet,  much  loved  Adaleta,  her 
orphan  child,  and  now  at  her  sister's  grave,  then  at  the  weep 
ing  circle,  who  stand  and  sob  as  the  falling  clods  bring  forth 
that  hollow  sound,  never  heard  in  any  other  place.  Now  the 
voice  of  him  who  says:  "'Tis,the  last  of  earth,"  "Let  us 
pray,"  breaks  the  charmed  circle  of  intense  silence. 

Why  is  every  eye  upturned  at  the  close  ?  Did  each  listen 
ing  ear  fancy  it  heard  the  sound  of  an  angel's  voice  in  the  air, 
breathing  the  words,— "Will  he  Come  ?"  "  Will  he  Come «" 

And  did  they  expect  to  see  the  face  of  Little  Katy  in  the 


402  HOT     CORN. 

clouds,  looking  down  upon  those  she  loved,  paying  this  tribute 
to  her  mother,  now  sleeping  by  her  side  in  the  grave ;  now 
with  her  child  in  the  spirit  land  of  the  blest  ? 

Now  the  tall  corn  is  waving  o'er  the  mountain  and  glen, 
And  the  sickle  is  reaping  both  the  corn  and  the  men  ; 
And  the  child  that  was  sleeping  where  the  lamps  dimly  shone, 
Like  the  corn,  now  is  with'ring,  in  the  vale  all  alone. 
"Hot  corn !"  she  was  crying,  in  the  night,  all  alone, 
"  Hot  corn  !  here's  your  nice  hot  corn  !"  in  the  grave  all  alone. 

Where  the  chill  rain  was  falling,  sat  the  poor  child  asleep ;  * 
Where  the  lights  nightly  burning,  city  vigils  help  keep — 
Where  the  ague  was  creeping  through  the  blood  and  the  bone 
Of  the  child  that  was  sleeping  on  the  curb-stone  alone. 
"  Hot  corn  !"  she  was  crying,  in  the  night  all  alone, 
"  Hot  corn  !  here's  your  rJ-?e  hot  corn !"  hi  the  grave  all  alone. 

In  a  dark  room  lonely,  lay  the  cnild  all  awake, 
With  a  voice  wildly  crying,  "  Will  he  come,  for  my  sake  ?" 
Then  a  good  man  was  praying,  while  to  her  dimly  shone, 
Poor  fading  light — ceases  burning — and  with  God  she's  alone. 
"  Hot  corn  !"  she  was  crying,  in  the  night  all  alone, 
"  Hot  corn  !  here's  your  nice  hot  corn  !"  in  the  grave  all  alone. 

In  the  dark  grave  sleeping,  while  poor  Katy's  at  rest, 
While  the  wild  storm  raging,  ever  sweeps  o'er  her  breast — 
While  the  mourners  are  weeping  for  the  dead  passed  away, 
Let  us  pledge  by  the  living  that  the  cause  we  will  stay. 
"  Hot  corn !"  she  was  crying,  in  the  night  all  alone, 
''  Hot  corn  !  here's  your  nice  hot  corn,"  in  the  grave  all  alone. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN    NEW    YORK.  403 


A      VOICE       FROM      KATY     S       GRAVE. 

Among  the  many  poetical  effusions  which  have  been 
elicited  by  reading  the  story  of  "  Little  Katy,"  I  think  the 
following,  which  appeared  in  the  New  York  Tribune,  will  be 
read  with  pleasure.  It  is  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  B.  F  Foster, 
of  New  York  : — 

With  dizzy  whirl,  on  rushed  the  wheels 

Along  the  City's  murky  street, 
And  music's  light,  inspiring  peals 

Rang  out  from  folly's  gay  retreat ; 
And  busy  footsteps  hurried  past, 

And  human  voi<;es,  harsh  and  wild, 
Commingling,  floated  on  the  blast ; 

When  the  shrill  accents  of  a  child 
Rose  mid  the  din,  in  tones  forlorn, 
And  cried,  "  Come,  buy  hot  corn,  hot  corn !" 

Like  some  sad  spirit  wafted  by, 

A  stranger  to  the  ways  of  earth, 
Came  up  that  little  plaintive  cry — 

Sweet  discord  to  the  sounds  of  mirth. 
Unheeded  by  the  reckless  crowd, 

There  stood  a  girl,  a  pale,  wan  thing, 
And  'neath  her  bosom's  tattered  shroud. 

There  lurk'd  an  age  of  suffering ; 
While  e'en  till  night  approached  the  mom, 
In  feebler  voice,  she  cried,  "  Hot  Corn !" 


404  HOT     CORN. 

The  gas  lamp's  glare  fell  on  her  face, 

But  lighted  not  her  languid  eyes; 
And  down  her  pallid  cheeks;,  the  trace 

Of  tears,  bespoke  her  miseries ; 
With  hunger  gnawing  at  her  heart, 

She  shivered,  as  the  night  wind  blew 
Her  soiled  and  ragged  clothes  apart ; 

Till  all  insensible  she  grew, 
And  sinking  in  unblessed  sleep, 
Forgot  to  cry,  "  Hot  Corn,"  and  weep. 

Alone,  so  young,  how  came  she  there  ? 

To  sell  hot  corn  so  late  at  night ; 
Had  she  no  friends,  no  home,  nowhere 

To  rest,  and  hide  her  f-om  the  sight 
Of  the  rude  world  ?     No  mother  ?     Hush ! 

That  holy  name  is  not  the  one 
For  Katy's  parent.     Woman  !  blush 

For  thy  lost  sister ;  blush  to  own 
That  thou  canst  ever  fall  so  low, 
To  plunge  thy  childre*n  into  woe. 

Within  that  mother's  heart,  the  light 

Of  love  was  quench'd.  quench'd  by  the  flood, 
The  damning  flood,  whose  waters  blight 

All  that  is  left  of  human  good  : 
And  in  her  breast  that  demon  reigned, 

Who  "Give,  give,  give!"  is  ever  crying; 
Demanding  still  to  be  maintained, 

While  all  within,  around,  is  dying; 
Outpouring  in  its  baneful  breath, 
Destruction,  sorrow,  sin  and  death. 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  405 

The  lips  which  should  have  kiss'd  away 

Her  daughter's  tears,  dealt  curses  forth; 
The  hand  which  should  have  been  her  stay, 

Was  but  the  minister  of  wrath ; . 
Blind  to  her  wants,  deaf  to  her  prayers, 

Regardless  of  the  driving  storm, 
To  open  streets  and  midnight  airs, 

She  drove  that  little  shrinking  form, 
To  earn  a  dram !  In  shame  and  scorn 
With  famished  lips  to  cry,  "  Hot  corn  1" 

"Hot  corn,  hot  corn  !"—  night  after  night, 

More  faint  and  feeble  grew  that  voice- 
Still  fiercely  burned  each  glaring  light, 

Still  music  bade  the  town  rejoice ; 
The  ceaseless  footsteps  passed  along, 

Up  came  the  wild  discordant  tones, 
The  voices  of  the  thoughtless  throng, — 

The  bounding  wheels  rolled  o'er  the  stones,— 
But  midst  the  din,  the  rush,  the  roar, 
Poor  Katy's  cry  is  heard  no  more. 

In  one  of  those  dark,  noisome  cells, 

The  wretched  call  their  home,  she  lies 
All  motionless ;  the  icy  spells 

Of  death,  have  closed  those  weary  eyes  : 
She  speaks  not  now.     Alas  !  how  dread  ! 

That  calm  reproachful  silence,  when 
Beside  the  wronged  and  injured  dead, 

We  kneel  in  vain  !     Low  in  that  den 
Behold  the  stricken  mother  cower ; 
Grown  sober  in  one  fearful  hour. 


406  HOT     CORN. 

Sh«  calls  her,  "Katy,  darling!" — peers 

Into  that  pale  and  sunken  face, 
She  bathes  her  senseless  brow  with  tears, 

Sees  on  those  bruised  limbs,  the  trace 
Of  her  own  cruelty ;— ragain 

She  calls,  and  prays  for  one  last  word, 
Of  blest  forgiveness ; — all  in  vain, 

The  answering     )ics  no  more  is  heard, 
The  soulless  clay  alone  is  there, 
And  fell  remorse,  and  dark  despair. 

« 

Weep,  wretched  woman,  weep !     That  face 

Shall  haunt  thee  to  thy  dying  day ; 
Nor  time  from  memory  erase 

Thy  child's  deep  wrongs ;  for  they 
Shall  scorch  into  thy  guilty  breast ; 

In  mad  excitement  thou  shalt  hear 
Her  cries  ;  and  midst  thy  fitful  rest, 

Shall  that  pale  phantom  form  appear, 
And  o'er  thy  drunken  moping,  stand 
To  curse  thee  with  an  outstretched  hand. 

Yet  not  alone  with  thee,  abides 

That  curse.     Oh,  Men,  and  Christians !  can 
Ye  robe  yoursei     *  in  god-like  pride, 

And  boast  your  land,  the  one  where  man 
Is  most  exalted  ;  yet  permit 

The  Demon  Drunkenness  to  roam 
Unfettered  through  your  streets  ;  to  sit 

By  ev'ry  corner,  ev'ry  home — 
The  weak  and  wretched  to  allure 
To  drink,  to  suffer,  and  endure? 


LIFE     SCENES     IN     NEW    YORK.  407 

In  mercy,  then,  arrest  the  reign 

Of  this  dread  fiend ;  and  Oh !  protect 
Man  from  his  self-inflicted  pain. 

Spare  the  young  wife,  whose  hopes  are  wreck' d, 
Whose  heart  is  crushed,  whose  home  forsaken, 

Whose  life's  a  desolated  wild. 
To  infant  prayers  and  tears  awaken, 

And  from  the  mother  save  the  child. 
Hark  to  that  echo  !— "  Save,  oh,  save  1" 
Pleads  a  sad  voice  from  Katy's  grave. 


"  Pleads  a  sad  voice  from  Katy'a  grave- 
Save,  oh, save !" 

Fathers  !  mothers  !  sons  !  daughters !  husbands  !  wives ! 
Christians  !  philanthropists  !  All — brothers  and  sisters  ! — 
hear  ye  that  voice  ?  If  ye  do  not,  then,  indeed,  are  ye  deaf. 
Then  have  I  cried  in  vain.  In  vain  I  have  visited  the  abodes 
of  wretchedness  and  sin,  to  draw  materials  for  my  panorama 
of  "  Life  Scenes  in  New  York."  In  vain  I  have  painted  you 
dark  scenes  of  life,  instead  of  those  which  shine  out  in  the 
noonday  sun. 

In  vain  have  I  endeavored  to  awaken  your  sympathies  by 
relations  of  tales  of  woe,  or  painted  vice,  as  I  have  met  with 
it  in  my  midnight  rambles,  to  guard  you  from  its  snares,  if  I 
have  failed  to  touch  that  chord  in  your  heart  which  brings  a 
tear  to  the  eye,  for  it  is  that  which  will  prompt  you  to  action 
— to  sleepless  vigilance,  to  eradicate  from  the  world  the  great 


408 


HOT 


cause  of  such  human  misery  as  I  have  depicted.  It  is  that 
which  will  prompt  you  to  give,  if  nothing  more, 

".Three  grains  of  corn, 
Only  three  grains  of  corn,  mother," 

towards  the  redemption  of  the  fallen,  and  protection  of  those 
who  need  a  staff  and  a  guide  to  hold  them  back  from  the 
precipice  over  which  they  have  gone  down  to  ruin. 

Reader,  if  you  have  not  yet  done  it,  do  not  close  the  book 
until  you  have  paid  the  tribute  of  a  tear  at  the  grave  of 


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Robinson,  S.  R6 

Hot  corn,  H6 


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